ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  PEOPLE 
A  "PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 
BY  THEODORE  BONNET 


WITH 
A  PREFATORY  EPISTLE 

TO 
ASHTON  STEVENS 


Pacific  Publication  Company,  88  First  Street 

San  Francisco 

1914 


Play    Copyright,    1913 
By  THEODORE   BONNET 


Book    Copyright,    1914 

By  THEODORE   BONNET 

San   Francisco 


-P5 
3503 


PREFATORY  EPISTLE 


273763 


PREFATORY  EPISTLE 
To  ASHTON  STEVENS 


DEAR  STEVENS:  Until  you  passed  judgment  on 
the  merits  of  my  play,  so  far  as  they  could  be 
judged  in  the  reading,  I  was  inclined  to  suspect  my 
self  of  the  bias  of  paternity.  But  when  you,  a  con 
scientious  critic  and  student  of  the  drama,  wrote 
me  that  it  impressed  you  as  "upbuilding  conflict 
throughout,"  that  for  you  it  had  "choke  and  grip 
in  the  bare  reading,"  and  that  in  so  far  as  you 
could  judge  from  a  script  "the  construction  was 
beautifully  wrought,"  then  was  I  no  longer  dis 
posed  to  withhold  my  approval  of  my  darling  brain 
child.  Further,  I  concluded  that  if  it  no  more  than 
seemed  to  possess  the  qualities  you  found  it  could 
do  no  harm  between  book  covers.  Perhaps  it  may 
also  prove  innocuous  on  the  stage,  but  that  is  a 
question  about  to  be  determined.  Meanwhile  I  am 
standing  at  attention. 

In  this  attitude  I  would  talk  things  over.  I  have 
much  to  say  about  the  drama  and  the  theatre,  much 
that  has  occurred  to  me  since  the  writing  of  the 
play.  With  all  my  experience  of  the  theatre  I  had 
much  to  learn,  and  what  I  have  learned  I  should 
not  keep  to  myself.  To  my  experience  as  a  critic 
has  been  added  my  experience  as  a  playwright  in 
tent  on  having  my  play  tested,  my  curiosity  gratified. 
When  one  has  written  a  play  one's  labors  have 
just  begun.  This  is  no  querulous  observation. 
I  have  not  expected  theatre  managers  to  get  ex- 


vi  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

cited  about  this  play.  He  is  a  bold  and  venture 
some  manager  who  has  the  courage  of  an  un 
known  playwright's  convictions.  Besides,  who 
can  arrive  at  any  criterion  of  value  or  sense 
of  scale  in  order  to  pass  unerring  judgment  on 
plays?  Many  of  the  most  popular  plays  traveled 
far  before  reaching  "production,"  and  as  the  most 
popular  plays  are  not  always  good  plays  neither  are 
good  plays,  or  at  least  those  commended  by  the  most 
learned  critics,  always  popular.  Something  of  the 
same  perplexity  is  exhibited  with  respect  to  other 
works  of  art.  Once  there  was  a  young  man  who 
wrote  a  poem,  a  long  one,  which  he  called  "En- 
dymion."  He  was  told  to  go  back  to  the  shop  and 
stick  to  plasters,  pills  and  ointment  boxes,  and  be 
ing  a  sensitive  lad  Master  John  never  recovered 
from  the  blow.  No  such  cruelty  have  I  experienced. 
Quite  to  the  contrary.  Having  had  professional  re 
lations  with  the  theatre  for  twenty  years,  more 
fortunate  than  the  average  beginner  I  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  having  my  maiden  effort  put  under  the 
microscope.  Several  of  the  most  prominent  actors 
and  actresses,  as  well  as  several  of  the  most  suc 
cessful  managers  of  the  American  theatre  have  read 
this  play.  From  all  it  has  received  praise  so  ex 
uberant  as  to  seem  almost  like  satire  in  disguise. 
Some  of  it  may  be  insincere.  But,  as  you  know, 
one  theatrical  firm,  reputed  to  be  the  shrewdest  in 
America,  has  been  deliberating  for  two  months  on 
the  question  whether  the  play  should  be  produced, 
and  one  firm  considers  it  worth  the  hazard.  So 
anyway  whatever  be  its  merits  or  demerits  it  gives 
men  pause. 

From  all  the  judgments  that  have  been  passed 
on  this  play  I  gather  that  there  are  three  pitfalls 
which  the  American  playwright  must  avoid — into 
all  of  which  I  ingloriously  tumbled.  The  play  has 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  vii 

no  technical  blemishes,  no  immitigable  crudities — 
only  three  fatal  errors ;  that  is,  to  be  more  precise, 
judged  as  a  work  of  art  it  seems  passable,  but 
considered  from  the  standpoint  of  personal  interest 
it  conflicts  with  the  prepossessions  of  the  actor  and 
raises  the  apprehensions  of  the  manager.  Thus,  you 
see,  I  have  not  written  in  vain.  Experience  is  my 
reward,  and  in  that  there  is  instruction  for  others. 
So  it  will  not  be  waste  of  time  to  talk  it  over.  As 
the  author  of  the  play  I  am  incapable  of  the  detach 
ment  essential  to  calm,  serene  criticism,  but  I  am 
able  to  discuss  the  critiques  of  my  critics. 

My  first  blunder,  I  am  told,  was  in  writing  a 
play  without  the  slightest  thought  of  actor  or 
actress.  It  is  well,  I  have  learned,  when  making  a 
play  to  have  the  manner  of  someone  of  the  stage 
in  mind,  to  create  a  part  with  which  a  particular 
personality  may  be  easily  blent.  It  is  well  to  make 
inviting  roles,  roles  that  strike  a  chord  of  sympathy 
rather  than  a  chord  of  antipathy.  Actors  have 
changed  since  that  ancient  day  when  the  villain 
gladly  evoked  the  hiss  by  which  tribute  was  paid 
to  verisimilitude.  Nowadays  they  don't  like  to  ap 
pear  at  a  disadvantage.  But  alas !  how  should  I 
know?  Mine  was  the  transgression  of  ignorance. 
Not  designedly  did  I  permit  myself  to  become  ab 
sorbed  in  my  story  and  the  folks  in  the  play.  An 
humble  beginner,  I  strove  to  respect  every  known 
dramatic  convention.  No  hidebound  stickler  for  the 
artistic  am  I.  If  my  eyes  were  not  on  the  box-office 
neither  did  they  glance  at  posterity.  I  stuck  to  the 
matter  in  hand  not  that  I  was  unwilling  to  sac 
rifice  anything  to  the  mask  of  personality,  or  that  I 
undervalued  the  actress  who  chooses  a  part  as  a 
smart  woman  chooses  a  gown,  but  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  was  not  aware  of  the  prevailing 
standard  of  art.  With  that  standard  I  have  no 


viii  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

quarrel.  I  will  not  say  that  it  has  thrown  a  spurious 
glitter  on  the  stage,  or  that  it  is  destructive  of  in 
terest  in  the  thing  that  makes  the  actor  possible. 
There  will  always  be  room  for  the  individual  player 
— the  kind  of  player  for  whom  plays  are  expressly 
written.  And  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  writing 
for  the  individual.  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  done 
that.  We  know  that  Mr.  John  Masefield  wrote 
"The  Tragedy  of  Nan"  for  Miss  Lillah  McCarthy ; 
that  the  practical  Shaw  condescends  to  the  same 
practice,  and  that  Mrs.  "Pat"  Campbell  inspired 
many  a  playwright.  No,  there  is  nothing  essentially 
wrong  in  writing  for  the  individual,  but  there  is 
this  to  be  said  about  drama  as  written  today  on 
this  principle, — that  it  is  seldom  anything  more 
than  a  contrivance  by  which  an  actor  or  actress  is 
shown  off  to  advantage.  Whether  ^his  is  what  the 
public  wants  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  We  often 
mistake  what  the  public  merely  tolerates  for  what 
the  public  wants.  It  may  be  worth  while  in  pass 
ing  to  observe  that  while  the  public  has  been  ex 
ceedingly  tolerant  for  many  years,  at  present  most 
of  what  is  good  in  the  drama  has  to  be  propped 
and  nursed  by  private  enthusiasts  of  the  Drama 
League  and  the  so-called  Little  Theatres  that  are 
springing  up  over  the  country.  It  is  the  same  in 
England,  the  only  other  country  where  taste  has 
been  perverted  to  star-worship,  and  where  as  a  con 
sequence,  'tis  said,  the  theatre  is  becoming  insolvent. 
In  England  as  in  America  there  are  theatres  sup 
ported  by  private  subscription  that  connoisseurs  of 
the  drama  may  enjoy  the  plays  of  the  skilled  Con 
tinental  dramatists  written  not  for  stars  but  for 
actors  that  represent  the  genius  of  dramatic  inter 
pretation. 

Verily   things   have   changed   since  that   ancient 
day  when  the  actor  was  but  a  medium  of  the  dram- 


PREFATORY    EPISTLE  i* 

atic  art,  nothing  more  than  a  masked  convention. 
The  actor  has  climbed  so  high  in  his  own  firmament 
that  the  play  has  become  to  him  of  late  chiefly  a 
medium  for  his  own  ends  and  purposes.  While  in 
not  a  few  instances  this  is  fortunate  for  the  play 
wright,  since  not  infrequently  a  good  company 
makes  a  bad  play  acceptable,  it  may  be  one  of  the 
reasons  why  some  people  would  rather  dance  than 
go  to  the  theatre,  and  why  others  are  to  be  diverted 
from  the  drama  to  moving  pictures. 

I  have  been  speaking  as  a  critic  rather  than  as 
the  author  of  one  play.  I  have  not  yet  been  able 
to  share  the  feeling  of  the  playwright  who  is  in 
formed  by  the  difference  in  the  size  of  type  on 
the  dead-wall  that  the  author  of  the  play  is  a  per 
son  of  minor  consequence. 

TWO    OTHER    OBJECTIONS 

Bear  with  me  a  while,  my  dear  Ashton.  Kindly 
indulge  my  garrulity,  for  I  have  much  to  say. 
What  I  am  coming  to  is  a  discussion  of  the  objec 
tions  that  have  been  made  to  the  play  herein  printed. 
I  would  have  you  consider  these  objections  by  way 
of  academic  inquiry.  As  to  the  objection  that  the 
play  is  not  designed  to  gratify  the  vanity  of  an 
actor  or  actress  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Ac 
cording  to  the  judgments  that  have  been  passed 
two  other  mistakes  have  been  made :  first,  in  not 
avoiding  a  tragic  and  unhappy  ending;  secondly,  in 
entering  the  field  of  politics  for  my  story  and  char 
acters.  All  kindly  agree  that  it  is  a  "strong,  power 
ful  drama,"  but  some  are  of  the  opinion  that  to  win 
public  favor  a  play  must  have  a  happy  ending,  and 
others  say  the  political  drama  has  been  much  over 
done.  Now  if  the  play  is  tolerable  in  all  other  re 
spects  ;  that  is,  if  nothing  more  is  to  be  urged  against 


x  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

it  than  its  inexpediencies  I  shall  be  very  well  satis 
fied.  If  when  put  into  its  element  on  the  other  side 
of  the  footlights  no  fault  be  found  with  its  technique, 
and  the  story  be  deemed  not  too  dull  to  hold  an 
audience,  yet  it  fail  for  one  or  the  other  of  the 
ineptitudes  which  I  have  mentioned,  then  at  least 
it  may  serve  as  a  lesson  and  warning  from  which 
aspiring  playwrights  may  profit. 

To  be  sure,  when  a  play  fails  it  is  not  always  easy 
to  say  why  it  failed.  There  is  really  no  formula  of 
success  in  play-writing.  There  is  an  instance  of  a 
play  that  bored  a  veteran  London  critic,  which, 
according  to  his  own  confession,  was  just  the  sort 
of  play  that  he  had  been  always  reviling  people  for 
not  writing,  managers  for  not  producing,  critics  for 
not  praising.  He  owned  that  it  was  a  sincere  pre 
sentment  of  actual  life ;  that  the  characters  were 
alive,  well  drawn  and  had  the  value  of  types;  that 
it  was  full  of  food  for  reflection  and  innocent  of 
"theatrical  effects."  Yet  it  made  him  long  to  be 
amused  and  excited,  and  he  couldn't  tell  why  it 
failed  to  interest  him  with  all  its  "facts  and  ideas." 
The  explanation  probably  is  that  the  good  qualities 
of  the  play  were  wholly  negative.  The  author  had 
mastered  the  decalogue  of  prohibitions,  but  neglected 
the  organic  form  of  emotion  which  stimulates  feel 
ing  as  well  as  thought.  Obviously  positive  merit 
is  better  than  the  negative  kind,  but  yet  few  of  us 
have  the  genius  that  would  justify  us  in  defying  the 
seven  devils  of  the  theatre.  Hence  the  importance 
of  considering  objections  from  high  sources,  objec 
tions  not  to  be  found  in  textbooks  on  technique  or 
made  obvious  by  object  lessons  on  the  stage  itself, 
and  therefore  unknown  to  the  average  novice  of  the 
drama. 

But  let  us  come  to  the  objection  to  the  tragic 
ending.  It  is  so  old  as  to  be  quite  respectable.  The 


PREFATORY    EPISTLE  xi 

theory  of  those  who  voice  it  is  that  people  hate 
to  have  their  spirits  depressed.  But  the  play  with 
an  unhappy  ending  may  not  be  as  depressing  as  a 
play  that  tugs  at  the  heart-strings  for  three  acts 
and  winds  up  with  the  Lohengrin  wedding  march. 
Of  course  there  is  a  limit  to  man's  capacity  for  the 
tragic  and  depressing.  Interest  and  perception  are 
dulled  by  the  repetition  of  what  is  harrowing.  We 
know  that  in  old  Athens  the  general  mind  turned 
wearily  at  last  from  contemplation  of  the  tragic, 
like  a  glutted  vulture.  Pity  becomes  unendurable. 
Even  in  Athens  there  was  a  call  for  the  happy  end 
ing.  But  no  wonder,  all  things  considered.  An 
Athenian  audience  sat  out  three  tragedies  in  suc 
cession.  At  the  end  of  this  amazing  test  of  the 
power  of  intellectual  and  passionate  concentration, 
when  not  an  emotion  of  pity  or  terror  remained  to 
be  thrilled,  everybody  was  in  the  mood  to  smile.  A 
little  of  comic  relief  would  be  quite  acceptable. 
But,  mark  you,  nobody  ever  thought  of  suggesting 
that  a  play  be  adapted  to  the  situation.  There  was 
too  much  sense  of  art  in  Athens  to  permit  of  such 
a  thing.  Besides  if  the  Athenians  wanted  to  laugh 
they  were  not  afraid  to  weep,  and  the  great  writers 
of  tragedy  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  intersperse 
comic  catchwords  at  certain  measured  intervals. 
The  Athenians  called  for  a  happy  ending,  but  it 
came  in  the  form  of  a  jolly  farce,  and  nothing  was 
more  popular  in  that  line  than  the  satyr-drama. 
The  poet  of  the  three  stupendous  tragedies  was  also 
expected  to  write  the  farce,  and  thus  Sophocles  came 
to  raise  the  laugh  as  best  he  could  with  Silenus  and 
the  goat-foot  rout.  The  tradition  of  Athens  was 
one  drunken  farce  to  every  three  tragedies.  Be 
nighted  Athenians!  What  did  they  know  of  Pro 
hibition? 

Can  it  be  that  many  of  our  American  managers 


xii  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

are  steeped  to  the  ears  in  antique  prejudices?  Are 
they  afraid  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  allegiance  to 
what  is  called  classical?  No,  their  prejudice  is  of 
modern  origin.  Some  months  ago  Madame  Simone 
on  her  return  to  France  ridiculed  New  York  man 
agers  for  what  she  described  as  their  weakness  for 
the  happy  ending,  but  they  are  not  of  the  first  gen 
eration  of  wise  business  men  similarly  obsessed. 
In  Madame  Simone's  own  country,  in  the  days 
of  Sardou,  the  unhappy  ending  was  dreaded  in 
the  Parisian  box-office,  and  there  were  play 
wrights  who  would  as  soon  have  committed 
the  unpardonable  sin  as  send  an  audience 
home  in  tears  or  in  melancholy  mood.  More  re 
cently  Paul  Hervieu  declared  himself  against  the 
expedient  of  suicide  as  a  means  of  ending  plays, 
but  when  he  wrote  "The  Labyrinth"  he  went  con 
trary  to  his  own  teaching,  and  never  wrote  a  more 
successful  play.  Dread  of  the  unhappy  ending  used 
to  influence  English  as  well  as  French  playwrights. 
"The  Profligate"  as  originally  written  by  Pinero  in 
1887  ended  with  the  suicide  of  the  young  husband. 
The  London  manager  to  whom  the  play  was  sub 
mitted  shuddered  at  the  wind-up,  and  Pinero  re 
wrote  the  last  act,  bringing  the  curtain  down  on 
the  reconcilation  of  husband  and  wife.  London  saw 
the  happy  ending,  but  Australia  saw  the  suicide ; 
and  if  nobody  is  able  to  say  which  wind-up  is  to 
be  preferred  from  the  pecuniary  standpoint,  we 
know  at  any  rate  that  when  Pinero  attained  in 
dependence  he  killed  off  his  puppets  with  a  free 
hand.  Further,  we  know  that  he  nor  any  manager 
ever  had  reason  to  regret  the  self-slaughter  of  the 
second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  Indeed,  it  may  not  be  un 
reasonable  to  surmise  that  Mr.  Pinero  had  the  suc 
cess  of  the  Tanqueray  play  in  mind  when  he  suffered 
Zoe  to  put  an  end  to  the  complications  of  Mid- 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xiii 

Channel  by  throwing  herself  from  a  balcony  when 
he  might  just  as  well  have  let  her  go  on  smoking  her 
favorite  cigarettes. 

There  is  only  one  thing  in  my  judgment  to  be 
said  with  respect  to  play-endings:  they  should  be 
logical,  plausible  and  convincing;  never  a  subter 
fuge,  never  a  means  of  getting  out  of  a  hole.  The 
idea  that  a  sugar-coated  wind-up  is  craved  as  an 
anodyne  or  emollient  by  unstrung  feelings  in 
the  modern  theatre  of  comedy-drama  is  an  ab 
surdity.  An  audience  is  not  like  an  insomnia 
patient  or  an  opium  fiend.  Theatre-goers  do  not 
demand  that  their  emotions  be  sprayed  with  per 
fume.  That  managers  hold  to  the  contrary  in  no 
wise  disturbs  my  judgment.  Theatre  managers  as 
you  very  well  know,  my  dear  Stevens,  are  far  from 
infallible.  If  a  butcher  were  as  poor  a  judge  of 
meat  as  the  average  theatre  manager  is  of  plays  he 
would  become  bankrupt  in  a  month.  If  the  men 
who  produce  plays  in  New  York  are  not,  as  Madame 
Simone  said,  anything  more  than  speculators,  at 
least  they  are  always  guessing  what  the  pub 
lic  wants,  and  they  guess  wrong  as  often  as  they 
guess  right.  There  is  really  no  mystery  about  what 
the  public  wants  in  the  theatre.  The  public  wants 
good  plays.  The  majority  of  theatre-goers  per 
haps  would  rather  be  amused  by  an  exhibition  of 
legs  and  lingerie  than  by  the  drama  as  a  study  and 
interpretation  of  life,  but  it  is  really  a  question  as 
to  how  far  theatre-goers  can  be  persuaded  to  take 
a  delight  in  the  serious  drama.  They  have  never 
been  given  a  fair  chance  to  vindicate  their  taste. 
True,  they  have  rejected  some  beautifully  con 
structed  dramas  and  tremendously  serious  problem 
plays,  but  it  is  wrong  to  infer  from  this  that  they 
are  incapable  of  enjoying  specimens  of  good  crafts 
manship,  serious  plays  that  deal  in  an  honest  and 


xiv  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

searching  way  with  our  modern  life.  While  it  is 
not  to  be  gainsaid  that  the  public  demand  is  for 
frivolous  entertainment,  at  the  same  time  it  is  to 
be  affirmed  that  most  of  the  serious  plays  that  have 
failed  are  lacking  in  the  elements  that  appeal  to 
common  emotions.  Because  an  Ibsen  play  fails ;  or 
a  Shaw  play  or  a  Strindberg  play  or  a  Galsworthy 
play  or  a  Hauptmann  play,  it  does  not  follow  that 
all  the  serious  plays  of  these  competent  playwrights 
are  over  the  heads  of  the  plain  people.  Each  of 
these  authors  has  nodded  at  times.  They  are  all  very 
serious  men  and  deep  thinkers,  but  the  thoughts  they 
get  excited  about  are  not  always  of  general  interest. 
Nobody  cares  much  for  a  play  that  has  served  an 
author  as  a  means  of  bringing  into  the  theatre  a  new 
and  curious  apprehension,  or  dry-as-dust  philosophy, 
of  life.  But  everybody  likes  to  see  a  great  passion 
portrayed  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  credible. 

We  are  living  in  a  time  when  literature  shares 
with  medicine  the  privileges  formerly  enjoyed  by 
religion,  and  as  a  result  we  have  playwrights  who 
are  not  content  with  being  story-tellers.  They 
want  to  be  sociologists,  intellectual  shepherds  and 
guides  of  the  people.  The  surprising  thing  about 
their  serious  plays  is  that  so  many  have  suc 
ceeded,  inasmuch  as  it  is  the  tendency  of  the  so- 
called  intellectual  play-writer  when  in  the  guise 
of  a  creator  to  prove  himself  nothing  more  than 
a  pamphleteer  or  commentator.  Bernard  Shaw  is 
not  the  only  dramatist  yet  to  learn  that  the  message 
is  of  less  importance  than  the  terms  of  its  delivery. 
Also,  I  may  add,  most  of  our  managers  have  yet  to 
learn  that  it  is  not  wise  to  generalize  about  the 
drama.  A  play  with  a  striking  situation  makes  a 
big  stir.  Forthwith  the  managers  conclude  that  the 
public  wants  situations  of  precisely  that  kind.  So 
they  buy  them,  only  to  find  that  they  are  not  in  the 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xv 

right  kind  of  play.  A  play  with  an  unhappy  end 
ing  fails.  Forthwith  the  managers  attribute  the 
failure  to  the  ending.  It  never  occurs  to  them  that 
perhaps  all  that  went  before  the  ending  made  the 
play  impossible ;  that  maybe  the  play,  apart  from 
the  ending,  was  inherently,  essentially,  irredeemably 
defective. 

How  it  would  astonish  our  so-called  "producing 
managers"  to  learn  that  the  public  instead  of  dis 
liking  the  unhappy  ending  really  has  a  craving  for 
it !  The  idea  is  of  course  monstrously  incredible. 
But  here  is  a  modern  instance  that  may  be  more 
effective  than  a  wise  saw  for  inducing  sober  reflec 
tion.  .A  month  ago  Messrs.  Belasco  &  Davis,  man 
agers  of  the  Alcazar  Theatre,  San  Francisco,  asked 
the  clientele  of  their  popular  stock-house  to  give  an 
expression  of  preference  as  to  the  play  that  should 
be  repeated  by  Bertram  Lytell  and  Evelyn  Vaughan 
in  the  farewell  week  of  their  long  season.  By  an 
overwhelming  majority  "Madame  X"  was  the  play 
preferred.  Here  is  a  play  with  a  tragic  ending; 
not  only  that,  a  play  of  much  sombreness  and  sad 
ness.  Preferred  at  the  Alcazar!  Think  of  that! 
The  Alcazar,  I  need  not  tell  you,  my  dear  Stevens, 
is  a  theatre  that  caters  to  the  sweet  matinee  girl 
and  to  respectable  folk  who  care  naught  for  Ibsen, 
who  enjoy  the  so-called  wholesome  play  that  starts 
with  complications  and  ends  in  happy  adjustment. 
Yet  when  given  their  choice  they  picked  a  soul 
torturer,  and  then  they  packed  the  house  the  whole 
week. 

We  know  that  plays  with  unhappy,  nay,  with 
tragic,  endings  are  among  the  big  successes  of  the 
theatre.  Has  human  nature  so  changed  that  it  re 
volts  at  tragedy  ?  I  think  not.  A  play  of  a  year  ago, 
"Fine  Feathers,"  ended  in  tragedy,  and  -it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  ended  that  way  merely  because  time 


xvi  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

was  short  and  the  playwright  didn't  know  what  else 
to  do;  yet  the  play  was  not  a  failure.  It  survived 
the  plot,  the  treatment  and  the  ending,  and  never 
did  play  do  more. 

If  managers  will  glance  over  the  history  of  the 
theatre  they  will  see  that  the  weakness  which  they 
impute  to  the  public  does  not  exist.  If  it  did  what 
would  become  of  Shakespeare?  One  of  the  few 
popular  of  the  Ibsen  plays  is  Hedda  Gabbler.  One 
of  the  most  successful  of  American  plays,  and 
deservedly  so,  is  "The  Easiest  Way."  Sudermann's 
"The  Joy  of  Living,"  Pinero's  "The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray"  are  notable  instances  of  plays  with  un 
happy  endings  which  nevertheless  were  strong  in 
public  favor.  But  here  I  am  indulging  in  a  wholly 
unnecessary  argument,  for  as  a  matter  of  fact  my 
play  has  not  an  unhappy  ending.  Not  necessarily 
is  a  tragic  ending  unhappy,  though,  as  you  know, 
one  manager  who  has  read  the  play  confounds  the 
two.  It  all  depends,  as  you  know,  on  what  has  been 
done  to  the  sympathies  of  an  audience.  The  killing 
off  of  a  hero  or  a  heroine  of  a  play  is  both  tragic 
and  unhappy,  but  not  the  killing  off  of  one  who 
seems  to  deserve  a  miserable  fate. 

AS  TO  POLITICAL  PLAYS 

Now  as  to  the  objection  to  the  political  play.  I 
am  told  by  one  of  our  most  experienced  and  suc 
cessful  actresses  that  she  believes  "the  vogue  of  the 
political  play  is  passed."  "Oh,  why  didn't  you  write 
this  play  four  years  ago !"  and  "I  hope  it  is  not  too 
late  for  a  worthy  actor  to  play  Governor  Hopkins" 
she  exclaimed  in  a  very  sweet  and  complimentary 
letter.  An  actor,  too,  veteran  of  the  stage  and  star 
of  many  seasons,  though  he  has  not  read  the  play, 
hearing  it  was  a  political  play,  lamented  in  a  kindly 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE 


letter  my  waste  of  time.  Explaining  that  two 
political  plays  in  which  he  starred  for  a  short  time 
were  failures,  he  concluded  that  mine  was  fore 
doomed  to  failure.  But  these  critics  have  left  me 
cold.  And  even  though  the  play  prove  a  failure  I 
should  not  be  convinced  of  the  soundness  of  their 
judgment.  Why  blame  the  hand  on  the  dial  for 
pointing  the  wrong  hour  rather  than  the  works  in 
side  the  clock?  My  notion  of  the  matter  is  that 
people  will  hark  now  and  again  to  human  nature 
wherever  under  the  sun  it  catches  their  ear;  that 
all  that  is  required  of  the  playwright  is  average 
human  nature  flung  with  some  effect  into  the  vortex 
of  vital  human  events. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  singularly 
enough  it  was  chiefly  on  account  of  some  political 
plays  I  have  seen  that  I  wrote  "A  Friend  of  the 
People."  As  a  critic  I  had  long  ago  determined  to 
write  a  play  that  I  might  gain  some  knowledge  of 
the  difficulties  of  the  art.  Also,  long  ago  I  wished 
to  see  a  politician  treated  as  I  have  treated  a 
politician  in  the  play.  Several  of  my  literary  friends 
whom  I  thought  better  equipped  for  the  task  than 
myself  I  urged  to  write  a  play  of  this  type.  As 
they  would  not  gratify  me  I  set  to  work  myself. 
My  choice  of  substance  was  therefore  deliberate.  In 
a  measure  it  was  a  spirit  of  protest  that  prompted 
me — of  protest  against  the  trend  of  the  political 
drama  in  the  United  States.  So  you  can  fancy  my 
astonishment  on  being  told  at  a  time  when  every 
thing  in  the  country  is  taking  the  shape  and  hue 
of  politics,  that  the  people  have  been  surfeited  with 
political  drama.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  it.  I 
regard  politics  as  a  vital  and  pertinent  matter. 
Plays  about  politics  must  come  as  closely  home  to 
all  our  bosoms  as  plays  about  religion  to  the  people 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  As  people  then  were  supremely 


xviii  PREFATORY    EPISTLE 

interested — to  the  point  of  tears  and  of  laughter — 
about  their  souls,  so  in  these  days  of  the  primary, 
the  recall,  the  initiative  and  the  referendum  are 
people  concerned  about  the  business  of  governing. 
Along  with  these  views  I  hold  that  the  background 
of  a  drama  against  which  the  characters  are  thrown 
is  of  less  consequence  than  the  motive,  the  char 
acterizations  and  the  episodes.  In  the  atmosphere 
of  politics  it  is  possible  to  develop  passions  and  in 
trigue  in  nowise  political  and  of  universal  interest. 
"The  Joy  of  Living"  is  a  political  drama,  but  Beata's 
infidelity  to  her  husband  is  not  political,  nor  is  the 
conflict  between  lover  and  husband  an  affair  either 
of  State  or  of  pothouse  politics.  "Julius  Caesar"  is 
a  political  drama,  but  the  aspiring  Brutus  is  a  fas 
cinating  mortal,  and  Shakespeare  wins  our  sympathy 
for  him,  and  the  vogue  of  the  play  appears  to  be 
immortal.  It  is  absurd  to  classify  plays  according 
to  their  background ;  or  to  demand  of  a  playwright 
anything  more  than  that  he  reveal  to  us  human  be 
ings  and  striking  human  events.  This  he  may  do 
in  fantasy  or  farce,  in  the  drawing-room  or  on  the 
campus,  among  politicians  or  among  peasants.  His 
success  depends  on  whether  he  gives  us  a  discern 
ing  account  of  some  of  the  eternal  varieties  of  the 
main  stuff  of  human  nature,  and  it  will  do  no  harm 
if  he  reveals  a  sympathetic  insight  into  ordinary 
every  day  human  character  and  some  acquaintance 
with  manners  in  the  particular  circle  which  he  has 
brought  before  the  footlights.  To  accomplish  his 
purpose,  however,  he  must  avoid  the  practice  of  the 
authors  of  our  political  drama;  that  is  he  must  not 
take  his  men  and  women  at  second-hand  from  news 
papers  and  magazines.  His  pictures  must  be  of  his 
own  dramatic  vision.  He  must  conceive  the  details 
of  the  conflict  as  having  really  happened  and  con 
vince  himself  that  they  must  happen  over  again  on 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xix 

the  stage  with  all  the  energy  of  life.  And  so  it 
would  seem  that  the  playwright  may  go  where  he 
lists  for  material ;  for  indubitably  an  audience  held 
in  suspense  and  carried  along  by  developments  and 
moved  to  tears  or  laughter  or  merely  to  deep  con 
cern  will  not  complain  that  the  dramatist  ventured 
on  the  ocean  instead  of  remaining  on  land,  or  that 
he  entered  this  sphere  of  activity  instead  of  that. 

What  does  it  matter,  then,  the  background  of  a 
play,  if  it  be  really  good  drama?  If  all  plays  were 
of  the  thesis  type  and  every  playwright  more 
polemical  than  dramatic,  more  concerned  about  his 
argument  than  his  story,  then  it  would  not  be  un 
reasonable  for  the  public  to  grow  weary  of  politics, 
or,  for  that  matter,  of  sociology  or  religion  or  any 
thing  else  provocative  of  controversy.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  there  is  only  one  kind  of  play  to  which 
the  public  objects — the  dull  play.  The  vogue  of 
the  political  play  is  co-extensive  with  the  vogue  of 
politics,  and  if  we  want  to  realize  how  States  fall 
and  men  deceive  themselves  and  are  deceived  politics 
is  not  a  valueless  field  for  the  drama.  The  political 
theme  will  never  be  outworn  while  people  are  to  be 
interested  in  intrigue  or  while  the  sycophants  of 
King  Mob  have  access  to  the  far-flung  ear  of  that 
royal  Caliban.  The  theme  is  as  fresh  today  as 
when  Euripides  in  a  flame  of  indignation  over  the 
wanton  butchery  on  the  island  of  Melos  dashed  off 
the  "Trojan  Women,"  that  most  thrilling  drama 
wherein  he  seems  to  say  to  the  people  of  Athens, 
"This  is  the  end  of  all  your  boasted  empire  with  its 
glory  and  its  pride."  If  we  ever  get  the  long-ex 
pected  great  American  play  will  it  not  be  a  political 
play,  one  to  inspire  the  people  with  devotion  to  their 
country?  You  will  remember  that  in  old  Athens 
whenever  the  people  were  thought  to  be  growing 
neglectful  of  their  civic  obligations  that  good  old 


xx  PREFATORY   EPISTLE 

tragedy  "The  Persians"  was  put  on,  and  when  the 
temperamental  Athenians  emerged  from  the  theatre 
inflamed  with  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  their  country 
woe  to  the  person  or  persons  that  threatened  injury 
to  any  one  of  the  ancient  and  revered  civic  institu 
tions  ! 

Now  it  occurs  to  me  that  the  noblest  theme  for 
the  dramatist  is  to  be  found  right  here  in  the  tragi 
comedy  of  a  nation  inflamed  by  politicians  and 
smouldering  with  a  manufactured  discontent  that 
here  and  there  bursts  forth  into  flame  like  beacons 
at  night  on  dark  hills.  If  you  consider  some  of  the 
things  that  have  happened  and  are  happening  I 
know  you  will  sympathize  with  me  in  my  desire  to 
awaken  those  who  slumber  on  the  easy  pillow  of 
contemporary  opinion.  I  have  in  mind  at  present 
the  infamous  Ballinger  conspiracy  and  the  cruel 
political  uses  to  which  the  Federal  Department  of 
Justice  has  been  put  in  recent  years  for  the  greater 
glory  of  some  of  our  adored  statesmen.  I  know 
you  understand  because  you  have  written  to  me 
that  "A  Friend  of  the  People"  is  the  "keenest,  most 
authoritative  political  play  ever  written  in  this  coun 
try."  Which  means,  I  assume,  that  it  embodies  a 
fragment  of  truth.  That  is  what  I  intended,  and 
now  my  hope  is  that  the  fragment  is  set  forth  in  a 
manner  to  make  the  play  actable.  For  after  all 
truth  is  but  a  poor  defence.  As  Aristotle  or  some 
body  tells  us,  "Not  to  know  that  a  hind  has  no 
horns  is  a  less  serious  matter  than  to  paint  it  in- 
artistically."  Nor  does  it  suffice  to  be  artistic.  In 
addition  to  the  breathing  life  there  must  be  life 
kindling  and  palpitating. 

Here  I  find  myself  platitudinizing  like  a  Roosevelt. 
Let  us  get  back  to  the  question  of  the  vogue  of 
political  plays.  If  it  appears  to  be  at  an  end  it  is 
not  because  theatre-goers  are  not  to  be  either  en- 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xxi 

tertained  or  stimulated  intellectually  by  genuine  in 
terpreters  of  the  world  in  which  we  live.  It  is  be 
cause  our  playwrights,  for  the  present  somewhat  re 
mote  from  the  realities  of  national  life,  have  been 
trying  to  make  possible  the  impossible  civic  patriots 
of  magazinedom.  I  will  try  to  make  my  meaning 
clearer.  But  I  realize  that  before  going  any  fur 
ther  I  must  brace  myself  to  encounter  the  charge  of 
self-conceit.  When  one  is  but  a  novice  of  the  drama 
he  is  conscious  of  a  sort  of  bad  manners  in  presum 
ing  to  instruct  clever  and  experienced  playwrights. 
Having  written  a  play,  it  will  be  said  that  I  should 
cease  to  comment  on  the  work  of  others,  and  find 
something  invidious  in  the  proceeding,  but  no,  I  am 
not  yet  to  be  considered  a  playwright.  I  may  never 
be  so  considered.  And  anyway  having  stronger 
views  about  the  state  of  the  country  than  about 
the  state  of  the  theatre,  my  critical  faculty  is  not  to 
be  restrained  by  considerations  of  delicacy.  I  see 
in  our  political  plays  a  tendency  to  mislead  an  al 
ready  badly  misled  public,  and  therefore  I  am  pro 
testing.  Mark  you !  I  am  not  accusing  our  play 
wrights  of  prostituting  their  art  for  the  promotion 
of  the  unworthy  designs  of  politicians.  Worse  than 
that,  I  am  saying  they  are  misled.  No  serious 
political  drama  that  I  have  seen  reflects  anything  of 
the  life  and  truth  of  American  politics  save  as  it  is 
represented  to  us  by  the  gushing  sentimentalists  of 
the  magazines.  One  sees  nothing  in  our  political  ^ 
drama  but  the  apotheosis  of  the  American  reformer.  I 
It  occurs  to  me  that  all  our  playwrights — ther 
playwrights  of  the  underworld  as  well  as  of  politics 
— are  Progressives.  They  have  been  writing  the  up 
lift  drama.  Now  if  the  managers  will  tell  me  that 
the  public  is  surfeited  with  Progressive  politics  I 
shall  not  dispute  the  proposition.  I  realize  that  the 
burning  question  of  today  is  removed  from  the  ash- 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE 


tray  of  tomorrow.     But  I  will  ask  them  What  about 
the  standpat  drama  ?    Is  that  never  to  get  a  hearing  ? 
Our  playwrights   have   explored   a   corner  of  life 
through  the   idealism   of  the  magazines.     On  the 
stage  as  in  the  magazines,  the  shuttle  plies  to  and 
fro,  the  pattern  of  the  web  grows  before  our  eyes, 
and  it  is  always  the  same.     We  get  nothing  but  a 
distorted  and  trembling  reflection  of  the  political 
atmosphere    of   the    day.     This    is    not   a    strange 
phenomenon.      The    explanation    is    simple.      The 
drama  more  than  any  other  art  is  sensitive  to  en 
vironment.     It  feels  what  is  in  the  air,  reflects  the 
sentiment  of  the  times.     And  here  we  are  in  an  age 
of  cant,  the  cant  of  the  uplift,  the  cant  of  social 
reform,  the  cant  of  altruism,  the  cant  of  chivalry. 
What  has  been  the  effect  on  the  drama  ?    The  drama 
has  become  the  pallid  reflex  of  the  artificial  manner 
with  seldom  a  patch  of  vivid  relief.     The  so-called 
political  drama  is  palpitant  with  the  cant  of  civic 
patriotism.     It  sees  nothing  in  our  vociferous  polit 
ical  reformers  but  sincerity  and  high  character;  in 
all  others  nothing  but  detestable  cynicism  and  dis 
honesty.     It  never  occurs  to  our  playsmiths  that  per 
haps  there  may  be  here  or  there  a  political  Tartuffe 
practicing    his    impostures    on    the    people.      And 
though   the  country   is    full   of   Sulzers,    hypocrisy 
dripping  from  them  as  fluently  as  honey  from  the 
comb,  nowhere  is  there  a  Moliere,  or  even  a  Shaw 
or  Henry  Arthur  Jones  to  apply  the  lash  of  satire, 
or  even  to  follow  with  a  half-amused  but  pitiful 
sympathy  the  various  ways  of  human  disposition  and 
show  us  that  there  is  less  distance  than  the  average 
magazine  reader  is  able  to  perceive  between  what 
is  called  respectively  great  and  little  things.     Noth 
ing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  seriousness  with 
which  our  playwrights  take  our  politicians.     Every 
"Battle  Bob"  is  accepted  on  the  basis  of  his  self- 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE 

appraisement ;  as  he  looks  to  Lincoln  Steffens  rather 
than  as  he  impresses  George  Ade  or  Peter  Finley 
Dunne.  The  public  has  been  gorged  on  the  sham 
heroics  of  politics,  and  like  the  boa-constrictor  after  \/ 
its  semi-annual  dinner  it  has  gathered  itself  up  for 
a  long  fit  of  dyspepsia. 

The  country  is  full  of  the  stuff  of  comedy-drama 
and  farce  going  a-begging.  Think  of  all  the  rich 
and  inexhaustible  materials  in  the  Puritanical  capital 
of  our  country  where  the  Gridiron  Club  makes  an 
occasional  incision  into  the  solid  mass  of  ignorance, 
cant  and  egotism !  Hold  the  mirror  up  to  Wash 
ington,  and  you  will  see  "the  very  body  of  the  age, 
its  form  and  pressure."  If  we  are  deficient  in 
comedy  it  is  not  because  we  are  without  characters 
in  real  life  or  without  incidents  to  inspire.  Who 
could  invent  anything  more  comical  and  droll  than 
the  average  cow-county  lawyer,  incompetent  in  his 
profession,  who  gets  elected  to  Congress  and  forth 
with  proceeds  to  regulate  "big  business"  and  re 
form  the  institutions  of  his  country,  with  as  little 
knowledge  of  the  science  of  government  as  a  hog 
has  of  the  precession  of  the  equinoxes ;  or,  as  Ed 
mund  Burke  phrases  it  on  this  very  subject,  as  lit 
tle  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  government  as  a 
titmouse  has  of  the  gestation  of  an  elephant.  Ponder 
the  wealth  of  material  for  the  purposes  of  the  farce 
writer  under  the  tents  of  the  Chautauqua  circuit 
where  the  Tribune  of  the  People  spouts  his  plat 
itudes  while  his  great  rival  leads  the  moving-picture 
men  up  the  slopes  of  the  Andes.  The  other  day  I 
read  in  one  of  the  hero-making  weeklies — Collier's  or 
Harper's — of  a  former  train  robber  who  was  run 
ning  for  Governor  of  Oklahoma  intent  on  purifying 
politics.  Did  his  celebrant  see  the  joke  or  perceive 
that  the  case  was  typical  ?  He  did  not. 

Think  of  all  the  comedy-drama  to  be  found  in 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE 


the  doings  of  the  mutual  admiration  society  of  which 
the  Pinchots,  the  Lindseys,  the  Garfields,  the  John 
sons  and  the  Heneys  are  the  shining  lights.  Out 
side  of  the  Pickwick  Papers  there  is  nothing  in  all 
fiction  half  so  droll  as  the  endless  chain  of  reciprocal 
certification  of  character  by  which  these  men  in 
spire  confidence  in  one  another.  What  a  field  for 
the  satirist!  or  for  anybody  with  a  gift  for  the 
comedy  of  radiant  sanity  !  Which  reminds  me  of 
the  reticence  of  the  comic  spirit  in  our  theatre. 
This  is  inexplicable  except  on  the  hypothesis  that 
our  sense  of  humor  has  been  dulled  by  the  comic 
supplement.  If  the  ludicrous  took  hold  of  the 
American  imagination  instead  of  gliding  over  the 
mind  without  jostling  or  jarring  it  wouldn't  some 
writer  long  ago  have  made  our  conspicuous  polit 
icians  serve  their  country  in  the  atmosphere  most 
congenial  to  them  —  that  of  farce-comedy? 

What  we  need  are  a  few  miners  of  the  drama  to 
examine  and  probe  the  foundations  on  which  the 
men  who  are  trying  to  purify  politics  and  business 
have  reared  their  structure  of  superior  virtue.  It 
is  only  by  inadvertence,  as  in  the  "High  Road," 
a  drama  now  in  its  second  season,  that  you  meet 
with  a  touch  of  truth.  Here  you  have  the  typical 
reformer,  the  man  of  high  ideals  in  politics  and  low 
standards  of  personal  and  private  decency  ;  in  other 
words,  a  man  whose  character  is  all  veneer,  for 
public  display.  He  marries  a  woman  with  a  past, 
a  woman  honest  enough  to  be  frank  and  self-reveal 
ing,  and  when  the  past  returns  to  menace  his  polit 
ical  ambition  he  casts  reproaches  on  her,  utters  a 
few  moral  platitudes,  and  subjects  her,  in  her  own 
home,  in  the  presence  of  three  politicians,  to  the 
bullying  and  badgering  of  a  blackmailer  intent  on 
exposing  the  infamy  that  she  has  repented.  This 
is  the  one  big  scene  of  the  play.  Here  are  the  only 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xxv 

rousing  moments,  and  they  are  attained  by  letting 
go  not  only  the  minor  truth  of  life  but  the  higher 
verities  of  drama.  The  whole  act  is  motived  in  un 
reality,  but  what  I  like  about  it  is  the  exquisite  and 
subtle  satire  which  escaped  even  the  author  himself. 
In  the  white  heat  of  his  imagination  he  conceived 
a  genuine  reformer,  an  uncompromising  enemy  of 
big  business,  a  zealous  uplifter,  who  proves  to  be 
devoid  of  self-respect  and  of  the  elements  of  man 
hood,  and  with  this  man  we  are  expected  to  sym 
pathize.  Many  of  us  did  sympathize  with  him. 
Which  shows  how  amazing  is  the  power  of  the  stage 
and  what  a  demoralizing  influence  the  play  may  be 
successfully  made  to  exert.  It  is  remarkable  the  lib 
erties  a  dramatist  may  take  with  his  audience.  So 
absorbed  does  human  nature  become  in  the  battle 
of  elemental  passions  that  even  when  the  persons 
engaged  in  the  conflict  take  leave  of  their  senses 
the  spectator  in  quick  sympathy  with  the  effects  de 
sired  projects  himself  into  the  situation  to  sustain 
the  illusion  and  save  the  author.  Many  plays  in 
which  the  elemental  passions  are  handled  awk 
wardly  make  their  effects  with  the  assistance  of  the 
audience.  But  all  of  these  plays  have  an  indefinable, 
impalpable  glamour  which  is  the  one  essential  ele 
ment  of  drama  that  nobody  can  teach  a  playwright 
to  create. 

Think  you,  my  dear  Stevens,  that  as  the  author 
of  a  play  I  have  violated  the  proprieties  in  thus 
commenting  on  the  work  of  a  contemporary?  If  so, 
in  mitigation  I  will  plead  a  principle  somewhat  akin 
to  the  one  invoked  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in 
his  letter  to  Dr.  Hyde,  wherein  he  contrasted  the 
luxury  of  the  home  where  he  had  enjoyed  Dr.  Hyde's 
hospitality  with  the  meanness  of  Damien's  hut 
on  Molokai.  The  author  of  "The  High  Road" 
impliedly  postulates  of  his  audience  that  there  is 


x*vi  PREFATORY   EPISTLE 

sufficient  of  caddishness  on  one  side  of  the  foot 
lights  to  make  tolerable  and  enjoyable  the  cad  that 
he  presents  on  the  other.  Either  this  is  the  case, 
or  the  author  intended  his  play  to  be  ironic.  How 
ever,  the  play  does  not  explain  itself.  Perhaps  the 
author  intended  to  laugh  at  his  audience.  But  it  is 
outrageous  to  ask  an  audience  to  come  and  be 
laughed  at;  to  make  them  pay  for  it  too.  Anyway 
I  feel  justified  in  holding  the  author  up  to  reproba 
tion,  especially  as  he  serves  my  purpose  to  illustrate 
what  is  the  matter  with  our  political  plays.  As 
suredly  if  a  play  of  this  sort  lasts  two  seasons  it 
does  not  argue  that  the  vogue  of  the  political  play 
is  at  an  end.  If  it  argues  anything  it  argues  that 
the  love  of  the  political  drama  is  exceedingly  strong. 
For  if  the  country  is  full  of  people  who  will  relax 
their  intellectuals  sufficiently  to  wallow  in  the  sen 
timental  claptrap  and  ineptitudes  of  "The  High 
Road,"  assuredly  it  would  pay  to  put  on  political 
plays  just  a  little  more  plausible  with  an  illusion  of 
intimacy  or  at  least  a  suggestion  of  familiarity  with 
the  obvious  growth  of  the  national  life  surround 
ing  us.  The  more  I  think  of  our  political  plays, 
the  more  the  field  of  politics  takes  on  the  appear 
ance  of  virgin  soil. 

Of  course  it  may  be  that  "The  High  Road"  has 
another  significance.  Maybe  it  argues  that  it  would 
be  waste  of  time  for  the  comic  spirit  to  exert  itself 
in  the  political  play,  our  theatre-goers  being  com 
mitted  to  the  unsophisticated  attitude  toward  our 
vociferous  job-chasers.  While  there  is  no  lack  of 
material  to  tempt  the  comic  spirit,  why  prod  the 
comic  spirit  if  there  be  not  enough  of  quick  per 
ceptions  to  constitute  an  audience?  Perhaps  the 
American  dramatist  knows  his  public.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  George  Ade  after  showing  us  his  delightful 
play  "The  County  Chairman"  failed  to  venture 


PREFATORY   EPISTLE  xxvii 

further.  Who  knows  but  that  the  deification  of  the 
American  demagogue  is  what  appeals  to  public 
taste?  Howsoever  that  may  be  I  have  attempted, 
feebly  perhaps,  to  reflect  a  little  of  the  truth  respect 
ing  our  politicians.  If  for  twenty  years  I  have  been 
a  student  of  the  drama  and  of  dramaturgy  in  vain, 
at  least  I  have  acquired  during  the  same  period  as 
a  newspaper  man,  by  actual  contact,  a  working 
knowledge  of  the  American  politician  in  his  variety. 
The  American  politician  as  I  have  found  him  is 
precisely  the  politician  as  described  by  Shakespeare, 
"One  that  would  circumvent  God."  And  contrary 
to  what  our  magazines  tell  us  and  our  playwrights 
teach  us,  the  politicians  whom  I  have  come  instinc 
tively  to  distrust  are  the  politicians  who  have  con 
secrated  their  talents  to  the  business  of  redeeming 
the  pillars  of  State.  Many  of  them  now  lauded  as 
great  civic  patriots  I  know  personally.  I  know 
them  to  be  men  marked  by  the  most  deliberate  and 
immitigable  baseness  of  character. 

You  see,  my  dear  Ashton,  I  have  a  lot  of  feeling 
on  this  subject  of  politics.  My  play,  I  think,  makes 
it  apparent  that  I  am  concerned  to  show  the  base 
ness  and  meanness  possible  to  a  type  of  man  by 
whom  a  great  deal  of  mischief  has  been  done  in 
this  country.  But  I  am  really  more  concerned  to 
start  our  skilled  literary  folk  on  the  right  track.  I 
am  not  insisting  that  I  have  succeeded  where  our 
recognized  playwrights  have  failed.  As  I  am  not 
yet  an  acted  author,  how  should  I  or  anybody  else 
know  anything  about  it.  The  makings  of  a  dram 
atist  may  have  been  denied  me,  but  I  feel  there  can 
be  no  harm  in  making  an  honest  attempt  to  deal 
with  life  as  it  is  and  bring  some  of  it  into  a  series 
of  pictures.  If  in  the  reading  the  play  has  some  of 
the  illusion  of  life,  and  there  is  here  and  there  a  cry 
of  the  flesh  or  of  the  mind  then  perhaps  between 


xxviii  PREFATORY   EPISTLE 

book  covers  it  may  rise  to  the  dignity  of  the  so- 
called  literary  drama — so-called  because  while  it  is 
unactable  it  is  also  not  illiterate. 

If  I  have  bored  you,  please  make  allowance  for 
the  intense  eagerness  of  a  beginner  to  justify  his 
choice  of  theme  and  his  faith  in  a  logical  ending. 
And  if  my  tone  at  times  is  that  of  one  speaking 
as  from  a  chair  of  knowledge  to  one  uninformed,  I 
beg  you  to  understand  that  this  letter  was  not 
written  only  for  your  perusal  but  for  the  perusal  as 
well  of  those  who  have  not  had  the  leisure  or  the 
inclination  to  pursue  a  study  of  technical  interest. 

THEODORE  BONNET. 

January,  1914. 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  PEOPLE 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 


CHARLES  WESLEY  HOPKINS,  the  Governor. 

LARRY  DOLAN,  his  secretary. 

AUSTIN  PENDLETON,  his  publicity  promoter. 

FRED  DUNSTAN,  a  newspaper  correspondent. 

EDWARD  SAWYER,  a  lawyer. 

CYRUS  FOSTER,  a  capitalist. 

MRS.  FOSTER,  his  wife. 

ROSALIE  COLTON,  his  niece. 

LUCY,  a  maid. 

The  action  passes  in  the  capital  of  the  State,  and 
within  three  days. 


ACT  I 

The  scene  is  the  main  office  of  the  Governor  of 
the  State  in  the  forenoon  of  a  day  late  in  the  month 
of  May.  In  the  wall  at  the  back  there  is  a  wide 
swinging  door  opening  into  the  room  from  a 
spacious  corridor.  In  the  right  wall  is  a  broad 
window  and  a  door  which  opens  into  the  Governor's 
private  office;  in  the  left  wall  two  doors,  one,  the 
nearest,  opening  into  a  room  used  for  clerical  and 
other  purposes,  chiefly  by  the  secretary,  the  other 
into  a  room  occupied  by  the  Governor's  publicity 
agent,  a  functionary  of  recent  birth  in  American 
politics. 

There  are  bookcases  against  the  walls  filled  with 
books  bound  in  calf.  A  large  writing  table  stands 
in  the  middle  of  the  room;  on  its  left  is  a  large 
revolving  chair  used  by  the  secretary;  on  its  right  an 
office  chair,  and  there  are  several  office  chairs  scat 
tered  about.  On  the  table  are  legal  documents,  writ 
ing  materials  and  a  telephone.  Near  the  revolving 
chair  to  the  left  of  the  occupant  as  he  faces  the 
window,  is  a  revolving  bookrack  filled  with  blue 
books  and  law  books,  within  easy  reach  though  not 
obstructing  the  view  of  the  entrance.  Also  near  the 
table  at  the  right  is  a  small  rack  holding  neivspaper 
files. 

The  secretary,  Larry  Dolan,  is  seen  at  the  rise  of 
the  curtain  near  the  entrance  holding  the  door  open. 


6  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

He  has  just  bowed  somebody  out,  a  woman  evi 
dently  from  the  extreme  courtliness  of  his  manner, 
in  which  there  is  a  suggestion  of  mockery.  As  he 
lets  the  door  swing  back  he  turns.  His  face  zvears 
a  feeble  smile.  He  is  a  well-dressed,  worldly-wise, 
good-natured  looking  man,  in  the  early  thirties. 

(Austin  Pendleton  enters  from  his  private  office 
with  a  slightly  mincing  gait.  He  is  a  little  lantern- 
jawed  man,  of  the  ascetic  type,  meek,  sleek  and 
prudent.  He  wears  loose-fitting  clothes,  a  white 
bow  necktie,  speaks  in  a  high  key  and  goes  through 
life  making  mental  notes  on  his  surroundings.  As 
he  enters,  he  sees  Dolan  mopping  his  brozv,  pauses 
and  gives  a  weak  cough,  at  the  same  time  putting 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  his  mouth  apologetically.) 

DOLAN.     And  I  hope  she  never  comes  back ! 
PENDLETON  (softly).     What's  that,  sir? 

DOLAN  (querulously  and  emphatically,  as  he  zvalks 
toward  window).  I  say — I  hope — she  never  comes 
back. 

PENDLETON.     Oh. 

DOLAN.  Mrs.  Mayhew — one  of  your  League  of 
Justice  ladies. 

PENDLETON.     Ah? 

DOLAN.  Had  her  for  half  an  hour — hm?  (He 
always  uses  this  ejaculation  with  a  rising  inflection 
as  though  asking  a  question.)  That  woman  is  al 
ways  in  a  honeymoon  heat  about  politics. 

PENDLETON  (goes  to  newspaper  rack,  sits  down 
and  takes  up  a  file) .  Splendid  woman — enthusiastic 
for  the  Eugenics  farm  idea. 

DOLAN  (scornfully).  And  never  had  a  child  in 
her  life.  Couldn't  have  one  in  a  thousand  years. 
But  that  isn't  what  she  came  to  see  me  about.  (He 
is  looking  out  the  window.) 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

PENDLETON  (nearly  falls  off  the  chair).     No? 

DOLAN  (who  hasn't  noticed  Pendleton's  astonish 
ment,  walks  over  to  revolving  chair).  She  wants 
to  start  another  recall  movement.  (Disgusted.) 
These  serious-minded  women  with  the  ballot !  They 
think  it's  a  club  to  brain  men  with. 

PENDLETON  (burying  himself  in  the  paper).  An 
other  recall? 

DOLAN.  And  another  judge — Brandon.  Gave  a 
fellow  ten  years,  and  because  it  was  a  scrape  with 
a  girl — hm  ? — she's  indignant  that  he  didn't  get  life. 

PENDLETON.  It's  the  sex  question — great  prob 
lem! 

DOLAN.  Rot !  The  sex  question !  (Looks  at  re 
volving  book  case,  takes  out  book.)  Here's  that 
crazy  report  of  the  White  Slavery  Commission — 
all  rot !  Mrs.  Landers  started  that  agitation.  And 
she's  just  like  Mrs.  May  hew.  Both  of  them  belong 
to  the  sexually  unemployed. 

(Pendleton  mutters,  springs  to  his  feet  in  a  rage 
with  newspaper  file  in  hand.) 

PENDLETON.     Infamous!  inf — 
DOLAN.     What's  up,  Pendy? 

PENDLETON  (in  perfervid  treble) .  Have  you  read 
this? 

DOLAN.  The  Times?  Oh,  yes,  I've  read  it. 
Pretty  hot  stuff. 

PENDLETON.     It's  criminal ! 

DOLAN.  Not  as  bad  as  the  one  in  the  Evening 
Post. 

PENDLETON.     The  Post,  too? — Dunstan's  paper! 

DOLAN.  Yes.  Hard  slam.  Says  you  and  the 
League  of  Justice  killed  Judge  Lawrence. 

PENDLETON.      Blackguards!      The    Post    is    the 


8  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

most  vicious  of  all  the  reactionaries.     It's  always 
abusing  this  Administration. 

DOLAN.     It  certainly  abuses  you. 
PENDLETON  (goes  to  rack).     I  must  read  it. 

DOLAN.  Says  you're  drawing  a  salary  from  the 
State  as  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Control  while 
running  a  press  bureau  to  boom  the  Governor  for 
United  States  Senator,  when  you're  not  using  the 
women  of  the  League  of  Justice  to  do  crooked 
politics. 

PENDLETON.  Infamous!  Mr.  Dolan,  I'll  sue 
them  for  libel. 

DOLAN  (his  eyes  twinkling).  For  telling  the 
truth  ? 

PENDLETON  (indignantly).     The  truth? 

DOLAN.  Come,  Pendy,  you  can't  rebuke  me  with 
the  voice  of  indignation.  Now  listen, — hm.  When 
Judge  Lawrence  committed  suicide  yesterday, — he 
raised  hell, — hm.  I  know  something  about  public 
sentiment.  It  switches  very  suddenly.  Take  my 
advice  and  keep  under  cover  for  awhile. 

PENDLETON.     What  do  you  mean? 

DOLAN.  Put  the  League  of  Justice  in  cold 
storage.  (He  has  taken  some  documents  in  his 
hand  and  starts  for  secretary's  inner  office.)  That's 
my  advice. 

(Enter  Governor  Hopkins  from  his  private  of 
fice.  He  comes  in  hurriedly  as  if  he  has  some 
thing  to  utter  at  once.  He  is  40  years  of  age, 
of  medium  size,  sturdy  frame,  clean-shaven.  He 
wears  a  frock  coat  and  slouch  hat  of  the  country 
sheriff  type.  What  lack  of  strength  of  character 
his  countenance  betrays  is  compensated  for  by  his 
manner  which  is  somewhat  impressive.) 

HOPKINS.      Just    a    moment,    Larry.       (Dolan 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

turns.)  You  remember  Ned  Sawyer,  don't  you? 
(Dolan  meditates.)  The  lawyer? 

DOLAN.     Sawyer?     No,  Governor,  I — 

HOPKINS.  Oh  you  remember  the  lawyer  that  got 
into  the  trouble  over  the  Larkin  estate. 

DOLAN.  Oh,  that  tellow.  He  was  sent  to  the 
penitentiary,  wasn't  he? 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  that's  the  man.  He  was  after 
wards  pardoned.  I  got  a  letter  from  him  this  morn 
ing.  He  wants  to  see  me  about  something.  (A 
pause.)  I'm  going  upstairs  to  the  library  for  a 
few  minutes.  If  he  comes  in  tell  him  to  wait. 

DOLAN.     All  right,  sir. 

(Dolan  goes  into  inner  office.) 

HOPKINS  (waiting  till  door  closes  on  Dolan). 
Trask  just  rang  me  up  over  the  phone  from  the 
city.  Some  correspondence  is  missing  from  his 
office.  (Pendleton  jumps  up  in  astonishment.)  It's 
been  stolen. 

PENDLETON  (amazed) .  Good  gracious !  What 
does  that  mean? 

HOPKINS.  I  don't  know.  He  didn't  want  to 
talk  much  over  the  phone.  (Puzzled.)  He  said 
something  about  this  man  Sawyer.  I  can't  make 
it  out.  There's  something  wrong. 

(Dolan  returns.) 

HOPKINS.  Remember,  Larry,  I'll  be  in  the  State 
Library. 

DOLAN.     Yes,  sir. 
(Hopkins  goes  out.) 

PENDLETON.  You  were  saying  the  League  ought 
to  be  put,  er — 

DOLAN.  In  cold  storage,  yes.  Suspend  business 
for  awhile. 


10  A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

PENDLETON.     How  long? 

Do  LAN.     Till  the  Lawrence  agitation  dies  out. 

PENDLETON.  It'll  never  die  out  if  Dunstan  can 
keep  it  going. 

(Enter  Fred  Dunstan,  tall,  a  well-groomed  man 
of  thirty-five,  with  the  sophisticated  air  of  the  news 
paper  man  zvho  has  had  such  varied  experience  of 
men  that  he  has  come  to  be  amiably  cynical  and  in 
clined  to  laugh  at  pretense.  He  is  chuckling  as  he 
enters.) 

DOLAN.  Hello,  Fred,  just  talking  about  you. 
What's  the  joke? 

DUNSTAN.  The  sign  on  the  door.  It  makes  me 
laugh  every  time  I  look  at  it.  (In  a  bantering  tone 
he  quotes  the  legend  on  the  door.)  "Executive 
office  open  to  everybody.  You  are  welcome."  And 
that's  what  the  dear  people  like !  You  can't  slap 
it  on  too  thick. 

DOLAN.  What  do  you  want  us  to  do — tell  them 
to  keep  out? 

DUNSTAN.  My  dear  fellow  I'm  not  reproaching 
you.  I'm  for  letting  you  go  as  far  as  you  like. 
Ah,  by  the  way,  Mr.  Pendleton,  now  that  Judge 
Lawrence  is  dead  and  out  of  the  way  I  suppose  the 
League  of  Justice  has  nothing  to  do  but  attend  to 
the  Governor's  senatorial  fight. 

PENDLETON  (sneering).  Is  that  so?  (Turns 
on  his  heel  to  go.) 

DOLAN.  By  the  way,  Pendy,  before  I  forget  it, 
the  Governor  has  been  asking  for  the  report  of  the 
Minimum  Wage  Commission.  I  wish  you'd  put  it 
on  his  desk. 

PENDLETON.     Yes,  sir. 

(Pendleton  goes  into  private  office.  Dolan  seated 
at  the  table  explodes  with  suppressed  laughter  as 
Pendleton  disappears.) 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  11 

DUNSTAN.     He  reminds  me  of  Uriah  Keep. 
DOLAN.     Oh,  he's  harmless. 
DUNSTAN.     He  helped  to  kill  poor  old  Lawrence. 
DOLAN.     Nonsense ! 

DUNSTAN.  It's  the  truth.  And  Judge  Lawrence 
was  one  of  God's  noblemen  and  as  straight  as  a 
string. 

DOLAN.     Well,  what  did  he  commit  suicide  for? 

DUNSTAN.  Because  he  knew  he  was  up  against 
a  machine  that  would  certainly  crush  him. 

DOLAN.     A  machine? 

DUNSTAN.     Yes,  a  machine. 

DOLAN.     What  machine? 

DUNSTAN.  Tush  !  Tush  !  my  boy — the  Governor's 
machine.  You  reformers  are  better  than  raw 
hands  at  building  machines. 

DOLAN.  Now  you're  making  a  noise  like  a  Post 
editorial.  My,  but  you  reactionaries  are  sore! 

DUNSTAN.  I'm  not  sore.  You  can't  give  the 
dear  people  too  much  direct  government  to  suit  me. 
My  theory  is  that  given  enough  rope  the  reformer 
will  hang  himself. 

DOLAN.  Oh,  come  now,  Fred,  the  people  are 
getting  mighty  good  government. 

DUNSTAN.  The  principal  trouble  with  it  is  that 
it's  under  forced  draught.  First  the  bond  election 
and  referendum  for  government  ownership,  prim 
aries  till  you  can't  rest,  the  Constitutional  election 
of  last  week  for  the  adoption  of  all  the  fads  and 
fancies  of  the  half-baked  philosophers,  the  re 
call  movement  stopped  by  death,  and  now  the  extra 
session,  with  another  direct  primary  in  the  offing. 
(He  sits  down  and  throws  up  his  hands  as  though  in 
desperation.)  The  Governor  is  going  some,  isn't 
he? 


12  A   FRIEND  OF   THE   PEOPLE 

DOLAN.  Don't  blame  it  all  on  him.  What's  the 
matter  with  the  Legislature  ? 

DUNSTAN  (solemnly).  The  Legislature?  Now, 
Larry, — I'm  not  an  expert  in  paresis.  But  don't 
forget  this — the  Governor  was  for  the  direct  prim 
ary,  and  the  legislator  with  a  brain  like  a  squash  is 
what  the  direct  primary  afflicted  us  with.  No  side 
stepping  of  responsibility,  please. 

DOLAN.     Not  at  all !     The  Governor — 

DUNSTAN.     — gave  us  woman   suffrage. 

DOLAN  (collapses  in  his  chair,  but  quickly  pulls 
himself  together).  The  people  voted  for  it.  And 
it  may  be  a  good  thing.  It  hasn't  been  fully  tested 
yet. 

(Pendleton  returns  ivith  manuscript  on  way  to 
Governor's  office.) 

DUNSTAN.  By  the  way  I  understand  that  Luke 
Trask  was  for  the  recall  of  Judge  Lawrence. 

(Pendleton  pauses  to  listen.) 

DOLAN  (obviously  startled  but  feigns  composure). 
Where  did  you  hear  that  knock? 

DUNSTAN  (flicking  the  ashes  of  a  cigarette  while 
he  glances  at  Pendleton).  A  little  bird  has  set  it 
to  music.  (To  Pendleton.)  Haven't  you  heard  it? 

PENDLETON  (who  also  has  displayed  some  agita 
tion).  No,  I  haven't,  but  anyway  I  never  pay  any 
attention  to  newspaper  gossip. 

DOLAN  (indifferently).     Nothing  to  it. 

PENDLETON.     Reactionary  poison ! 

DUNSTAN  (in  a  tone  of  sarcasm).     To  be  sure! 

PENDLETON  (choking  and  sputtering  zvith  rage). 
Mr.  Dolan  in  behalf  of  the  Governor — I — I — 

DUNSTAN.  Assuage  yourself,  Mr.  Pendleton. 
Beware  of  epilepsy. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  13 

PENDLETON.     You  are  disseminating  calumny,  sir. 

DOLAN.  Of  course  you  don't  believe  that  Trask 
was  interested  in  the  Lawrence  recall. 

DUNSTAN.  I'm  only  telling  you  what  is  being 
said,  and  remarking  how  utterly  improbable  it  is. 

(Enter  Miss  Cotton.  She  is  about  24,  tall, 
slender,  brown-haired,  pretty.  A  well-groomed 
young  woman,  there  is  alertness  in  her  manner,  and 
she  has  an  air  of  girlishness  and  of  having  been  in 
dulged  and  petted.  She  has  great  confidence  in  her- 
self.) 

DOLAN  (who  is  the  first  to  see  her).  Good  morn 
ing,  Miss  Colton. 

Miss  COLTON.     Good  morning,  gentlemen. 

PENDLETON  ( a  pallid  but  broad  smile  on  his  face) . 
Ah,  good  morning,  Miss  Colton.  Awfully  glad  to 
see  you. 

DUNSTAN  (going  quickly  forward  to  greet  her). 
How  do  you  do.  (They  shake  hands  cordially,  but 
she  is  apparently  diffident).  When  did  you  come 
up? 

Miss  COLTON.     We  motored  up  this  morning. 

(Dolan  busy  with  some  papers  goes  into  sec 
retary's  room.  Pendleton  is  nervously  eager  to  get 
in  a  word.) 

DUNSTAN.     Mrs.  Foster  came  with  you? 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes.  (To  Pendleton.)  Oh,  Mr. 
Pendleton,  you  wrote  me — 

PENDLETON.  Ye-es  about  the  League  of  Justice. 
I  am  arranging  for  a  meeting,  and  I  want  you  to 
see  the  program.  (Smiling  sardonically  at  Dun- 
stan.)  We  were  talking  of  the  League  just  a  few 
minutes  ago. 

Miss  COLTON.     Is  that  so? 


14  A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

PENDLETON  (grinning).  That  is — Mr.  Dunstan 
mentioned  it.  I  think  he  is  inclined  to  sneer  at 
our  League. 

Miss  COLTON.     Sneer  at  it? 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot 
that  you  were  a  member — er — an  officer,  I  believe. 

Miss  COLTON  (amiably  to  Pendleton,  but  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm).  Mr.  Dunstan  represents  his 
father's  great  journal — the  Post.  Their  sympathies 
are  not  with  us. 

DUNSTAN.  No,  we  are  incorrigible  conservatives. 
(Approaching  Miss  Colton  and  speaking  in  a  tend 
erly  propitiatory  tone.)  But  you'll  forgive  me, 
won't  you?  (She  smiles.)  I'll  promise  you  never 
to  sneer  at  the  League  again. 

Miss  COLTON  (with  affected  indifference).  How 
good  of  you !  (To  Pendleton.)  So  you  wish  me  to 
look  over  the  program? 

PENDLETON.  Yes.  It's  on  my  desk.  (Starts  for 
private  office.)  Will  you  come  in? 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes.  (To  Dunstan,  smiling.) 
The  business  of  the  League  keeps  me  very  busy. 
(She  starts  toward  Pendleton's  room.)  Wasn't 
Judge  Lawrence's  suicide  too  dreadful  for  any 
thing  ? 

(Dolan  returns.) 

DUNSTAN.     Indeed  it  was. 

Miss  COLTON.  I'm  so  sorry  for  his  family.  (She 
goes  in  with  Pendleton.) 

DUNSTAN  (watching  her  as  she  goes  in  and  think 
ing  aloud).  Well!  Well!  (He  sighs.) 

DOLAN.  Quit  that,  Fred,  or  I'll  think  you're  in 
love. 

DUNSTAN.  I  was  thinking  how  unfortunate  that 
a  young  girl  should  be  so  wrapped  up  in  politics. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  15 

DOLAN  (who  is  writing).  Unfortunate?  Quite 
natural  it  seems  to  me  considering  that  the  Gov 
ernor's  boom  was  started  in  her  uncle's  house. 

DUNSTAN.  Yes,  that's  so.  Mrs.  Foster  started 
it.  There's  a  brainy  woman! 

DOLAN.     You  bet  she  is ! 

DUNSTAN.  Many  a  good  time  I  had  in  the  Foster 
house.  (Sighs.) 

DOLAN.  Believe  you  were  an  old  friend  of  the 
family — hm? 

DUNSTAN.  I  used  to  visit  them  a  good  deal  be 
fore  they  switched  from  art  and  literature  to  politics. 
They  had  a  kind  of  salon  in  the  old  days. 

DOLAN.  A  salon — eh?  (Laughs.)  Shouldn't 
think  that  would  hold  old  Foster  very  long. 

DUNSTAN.  Hardly !  Between  ourselves,  old 
chum,  does  Foster  know  he's  alive? 

DOLAN.     What  are  you  driving  at? 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  .  .  . 
She's  such  a  spanking  woman,  and  he's — well  when 
a  man's  mind  stops  growing  he's  dead. 

(Pendleton's  office  door  opens.  Pendleton  is  hold 
ing  it  open  for  Miss  Colton.) 

DUNSTAN  (hastily  departing).  I'll  drop  in  this 
afternoon,  Larry. 

DOLAN.     All  right,  Fred. 

(Dunstan  goes  out.) 

Miss  COLTON  (entering).  Mr.  Pendleton  tells  me 
you  think  "the  League  of  Justice  has  been  too  active 
in  politics. 

DOLAN.  I  should  think  he'd  begin  to  think  so 
too  after  hearing  Dunstan  talk.  There's  been  a 
good  deal  of  criticism  since  the  suicide. 

(Pendleton  returns.) 


16  A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

Miss  COLTON.  But  we  can't  help  that.  I've 
agreed  to  make  my  maiden  speech  at  the  next 
meeting. 

DOLAN.  Do  you  know  they  are  coupling  the 
Governor's  name  with  Luke  Trask's? 

Miss  COLTON  (amazed).  The  attorney  for  the 
Blue  Mountain  Light  and  Power  Company  ?  (Dolan 
nods.)  The  man  the  Governor  drove  out  of 
politics  ? 

DOLAN.     Yes. 

Miss  COLTON.  Absurd!  Everybody  knows  the 
Governor  detests  that  man. 

PENDLETON.     Of  course  they  do. 

DOLAN.  Oh,  very  well!  But  let  me  tell  you 
something.  It  takes  very  little  to  turn  public  sen 
timent,  and  there's  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  for 
Judge  Lawrence's  family. 

PENDLETON.  Public  sentiment !  The  idea !  Think 
of  what  the  people  did  last  week,  Mr.  Dolan. 

DOLAN.  You  mean  they  voted  for  the  Constitu 
tional  amendments? 

Miss  COLTON  (rapturously).     For  all  of  them! 

PENDLETON.  Especially  for  the  one  which  makes 
it  possible  for  the  Governor  to  run  for  the  Senate. 

Miss  COLTON.  I  believe  every  woman  in  the  State 
voted  for  that. 

DOLAN.  I  agree  with  everything  you  say.  But 
there's  something  you  forget — hm — the  League  of 
Justice  isn't  supposed  to  be  a  part  of  this  Adminis 
tration,  or  to  be  mixed  up  in  partisan  politics.  It's 
supposed  to  be  an  independent  public  spirited  body. 

PENDLETON.     Well  ? 

DOLAN  (in  disgust).  Now,  Pendy,  I'm  not  going 
to  undertake  a  surgical  operation  to  enable  you  to 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  17 

size  up  a  situation  in  a  sentence.  Besides, — is  that 
the  Minimum  Wage  report  you  have  there? 

PENDLETON.     Yes. 

DOLAN.  Well  don't  forget  to  put  it  on  the  Gov 
ernor's  desk. 

PENDLETON.     I'll  put  it  there  now. 
(He  goes  in.) 

DOLAN.  You  like  the  game  of  politics,  don't  you, 
hm? 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes,  the  excitement  of  it. 
DOLAN.     We've  had  lots   of  that. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  I  like  to  feel  that  I'm  doing 
my  civic  duty  and  helping  Governor  Hopkins  re 
deem  the  great  and  beautiful  State  I  was  born  in. 

PENDLETON  (who  has  returned  just  in  time  to  hear 
the  last  words).  Good  for  you,  Miss  Colton !  (Has 
taken  up  newspaper  file.)  I  haven't  read  all  this 
Post  article  yet.  Have  you  seen  how  the  news 
papers  are  abusing  me? 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes,  it's  a  shame! 

PENDLETON.  It's  contemptible  personal  journal 
ism.  But  I  don't  care  about  myself — it's  the  Gov 
ernor  I'm  thinking  about — the  scoundrels! 

DOLAN.  That's  right — always  be  in  a  battle 
mood  about  the  Administration. 

(Governor  Hopkins  returns,  and  Pendleton  im 
mediately  goes  into  his  private  office  with  newspaper 
file.) 

HOPKINS.  Well,  my  dear  Rosalie !  (They  shake 
hands  and  he  is  inclined  to  embrace  her,  but  she 
looks  shyly  at  Dolan  and  draws  away.)  When 
did  you  come  up? 

Miss  COLTON.     This  morning. 

HOPKINS.     By  train? 


18 


Miss  COLTON.     We  motored  up  with  Uncle  Cyrus. 

HOPKINS.     Ah,  then  Mrs.  Foster  is  here  too. 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes,  we  have  taken  our  old  apart 
ments  at  the  Capitol  Hotel. 

HOPKINS  (to  Dolan).  Oh,  by  the  way,  Larry, 
I've  decided  to  call  the  extra  session  for  the  twenty- 
sixth. 

DOLAN.  The  twenty-sixth?  Very  well — I'd  bet 
ter  get  busy.  (He  starts  for  inner  office  and  goes 
in.) 

HOPKINS  (gravely).     So  the  Fosters  are  here! 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes,  they'll  probably  drop  in. 

HOPKINS.     Have  you  told  them  yet? 

Miss  COLTON  (feigning  surprise).  Told  them 
what? 

HOPKINS  (tenderly  taking  her  hand  and  caressing 
it).  You  little  rogue ! 

Miss  COLTON.     I  have  nothing  to  tell  them. 

HOPKINS  (laughing).    Are  you  going  to  jilt  me? 

Miss  COLTON  (looking  at  her  hands).  I  don't  see 
any  engagement  ring.  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
talk  it  over  with  Uncle  Cyrus?  You  were  afraid 
that  he  might  be  angry  with  you.  (He  gesticulates 
protestingly.)  I  believe  you  wanted  his  consent. 

HOPKINS.     Now,  Rosalie,  be  fair. 

Miss  COLTON.     Well,  then,  what  was  it  you  said? 

HOPKINS.  I  told  you  that  I  ought  to  be  the  first 
to  tell  him. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  you  wanted  me  meanwhile  to 
keep  it  a  deep  dark  secret.  I  don't  understand  the 
situation  at  all.  However,  it's  all  your  affair. 

HOPKINS.     Are  you  angry  with  me? 

Miss  COLTON.  Indeed  I'm  not.  I  think  it  lots 
of  fun.  Besides  I  think  you  are  too  busy  to  marry. 


19 


But  what  I  don't  understand  is  why  you  should 
have  asked  me  to  marry  you  when  you  were  so 
afraid  to  have  anybody  know. 

HOPKINS.  It's  because  you  don't  understand 
politics. 

Miss  COLTON  (pouting).  Don't  understand  pol 
itics!  What  have  I  been  doing  for  the  last  five  or 
six  months? 

HOPKINS  (jocularly).  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
dear  Rosalie.  You  do  understand  politics — after  a 
fashion. 

Miss  COLTON.     Only  after  a  fashion? 

HOPKINS.  My  dear,  it  takes  a  lifetime  for  a  man 
to  learn  all  there  is  to  be  learned  of  politics.  How 
can  a  woman  learn  it  in  less  than  a  year? 

Miss  COLTON  (having  received  an  inspiration). 
I've  had  more  than  a  year's  experience.  I  studied 
the  science  of  government  at  the  university. 

HOPKINS  (laughs).  Oh,  to  be  sure!  That  helped 
some. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  I've  had  a  liberal  education 
at  home. 

HOPKINS.     At  home? 

Miss  COLTON.  Nothing  else  talked  of  there  since 
Aunt  Edith  started  your  campaign. 

HOPKINS.     Oh. 

Miss  COLTON  (rising  suddenly).     Charles! 

HOPKINS.     Well,  dear? 

Miss  COLTON  (coaxingly).  Let  me  tell  Aunt 
Edith. 

HOPKINS  (startled).  My  God  no,  don't  tell  her! 
(Calming  himself)  not  just  yet. 

Miss  COLTON  (sits  down  in  dejection).  You  talk 
as  if  you  were  afraid  of  her. 


20  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

HOPKINS  (laughing).  Why  should  I  be  afraid 
of  her? 

Miss  COLTON.     Well  why  not  tell  her? 

HOPKINS  (sits  dozvn  and  caresses  her  hand).  I 
am  going  to  tell  her.  You  know  I  haven't  seen 
her  for  some  weeks.  And  you  see  (he  laughs)  I've 
been  a  little  timid.  Uncle  Cyrus  and  Mrs.  Foster 
may  think  it  imprudent  for  us  to  marry — you're  so 
much  younger  than  I. 

Miss  COLTON.  What  about  themselves?  Uncle 
Cyrus  didn't  think  it  imprudent  to  marry,  and  he's 
twenty-five  years  older  than  you. 

HOPKINS.     I  never  thought  of  that. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  Aunt  Edith — well  she  never 
told  me  her  age,  but  she  doesn't  look  a  day  over 
thirty-two. 

HOPKINS.  But  there's  another  thing.  Uncle 
Cyrus  thinks  I  should  be  devoting  every  bit  of  my 
time  to  politics.  You  know  he  wants  me  to  be 
come  United  States  Senator.  (Jocularly.)  He 
might  think  I  was  becoming  frivolous  if  I  stopped 
to  get  married.  You  know  he's  a  wee  bit  of  a 
crank. 

Miss  COLTON  (rising).  Perhaps  it  would  be 
frivolous  ...  to  get  married. 

HOPKINS  (taking  her  hand).  Oh,  Rosalie,  you're 
not  offended,  are  you? 

Miss  COLTON.  No,  I'm  amused.  (Suddenly 
laughing  merrily.)  But  it  seems  so  funny  that  you 
should  be  afraid  of  Uncle  Cyrus.  I  believe  that 
when  you  tell  him,  you  will  act  as  though  you  are 
breaking  the  news  of  a  death.  But  it  isn't  my  fault. 
I  didn't  begin  it. 

HOPKINS.  Sweetheart !  I've  been  making  a  fool 
of  myself.  Now  listen:  I'll  tell  them  all  about  it 
before  the  end  of  the  week.  After  all  what  do  I 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  21 

care  about  politics !  I  want  you.  You're  of  more 
importance  to  me  than  a  seat  in  the  Senate.  But 
the  Fosters  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  their  feelings. 

Miss  COLTON  (in  alarm).  But  I  want  you  to  care 
about  politics.  You  can  want  me  as  much  as  you 
like,  but  you  must  never  desert  the  people  of  this 
State.  And  besides  (a  pause). 

HOPKINS.     And  besides? 

Miss  COLTON.  I  think  I'd  like  to  live  in  Wash 
ington. 

HOPKINS.     Oho!     That's  it! 

Miss  COLTON  Well  you  do  want  to  be  Senator, 
don't  you  ? 

HOPKINS  (tenderly).  Yes,  especially  if  you  wish 
me  to. 

Miss  COLTON.  I  think  I'd  rather  be  the  wife  of  a 
Senator  than  the  wife  of  a  Governor. 

HOPKINS.  Then  the  wife  of  a  Senator  you  shall 
be.  ...  If  the  people  will  elect  me. 

Miss  COLTON.  I'll  not  be  worried  about  the 
people. 

(Dolan  comes  back  and  goes  to  table  for  papers 
and  Miss  Cotton  gives  signs  of  going.) 

HOPKINS.     Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  dear. 

Miss  COLTON.     I  must  be  going. 

HOPKINS.  Would  you  like  to  take  a  short  drive 
down  the  riverside  in  my  new  car? 

Miss  COLTON  (rapturously).  Oh,  yes,  when  shall 
we  go? 

HOPKINS  (looks  at  watch).     At  1 :30? 

Miss  COLTON  (near  the  door).     At  1 :30. 

(She  goes  out.  Hopkins  turns  and  is  about  to 
go  to  his  office.  Pendleton  returns  ivith  newspaper 
file,  an  angry  look  in  his  face.) 


22 


PENDLETON.  I'm  going  to  write  a  letter  to  the 
Post. 

DOLAN.  Going  to  make  a  damned  fool  of  your 
self — hm  ? 

HOPKINS.     What's  the  trouble? 

PENDLETON.  This  abusive  matter  oughtn't  to  be 
allowed  to  go  unanswered.  In  the  interest  of  the 
Administration  it — 

HOPKINS.  Never  mind  the  Administration. 
Never  write  a  letter  to  an  editor.  It  won't  do  you 
any  good. 

(Hopkins  goes  in.) 

DOLAN  (laughing  at  Pendleton).  Don't  be  rash, 
Pendy. 

PENDLETON.  Anyway  I  think  that  man  Dunstan 
deserves  a  stinging  rebuke.  What  impudence! — 
coming  in  here  and  uttering  his  calumnies  right  to 
our  teeth.  .  .  .  And  you  seem  to  like  him ! 

DOLAN.     We're  old  friends. 

PENDLETON.  What  has  he  got  against  the  Gov 
ernor  ? 

DOLAN.  I  don't  know  that  he  has  anything 
against  the  Governor.  Newspaper  men  write  ac 
cording  to  the  policy  of  their  papers.  Dunstan  is 
not  drawing  a  salary  to  boom  the  Governor.  That's 
your  job.  Oh,  that  reminds  me!  (Rises  and  goes 
into  secretary's  office.  Pendleton  takes  up  Post.) 

(Enter  Mrs.  Foster.  She  is  53  years  of  age. 
She  is  stylish,  and  has  a  face  lighted  up  with  in 
telligence.  One  is  immediately  struck  with  her  beauty 
and  charm.  She  has  a  distinction  of  manner  the 
most  unobserving  could  not  fail  to  notice.  As  she 
enters  Pendelton's  back  is  turned  toward  the  door 
and  he  is  once  more  absorbed  in  the  paper.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Ah,  good  morning,  Mr.  Pendleton. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

(She  comes  forward.) 

PENDLETON  (startled  out  of  his  clothes).  Oh, 
Mrs.  Foster !  You  startled  me !  (Puts  a  hand  over 
his  heart.) 

MRS.  FOSTER:     I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you. 

PENDLETON.     I  was  so  absorbed. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Is  the  Governor  in? 

PENDLETON.     Yes,  he  just  went  into  his  office. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Ah. 

PENDLETON.  A  lovely  day  we  are  having.  Your 
motor  trip  this  morning  was  delightful,  I  suppose. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes.  And  how  did  you  know  it 
was  a  motor  trip  ? 

PENDLETON.  Miss  Colton  told  me.  She  was  in 
a  little  while  ago. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Indeed? 

PENDLETON.     Yes.     Sweet  girl,  isn't  she? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Very. 

PENDLETON.  A  lovely  disposition,  and  so  serious- 
minded. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Too  serious,  I  fear. 

PENDLETON.  Oh,  my  no!  She  has  enthusiasm, 
Mrs.  Foster.  And  as  Emerson  tells  us  every  great 
movement  in  the  world's  history  was  the  triumph 
of  an  enthusiasm. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiles).  What  great  movement 
does  Rosalie  stand  for? 

PENDLETON.  The  purification  of  government, 
especially  of  the  courts.  The  quality  of  justice  has 
much  improved  since  the  ladies  organized  the 
League  of  Justice.  Judges  are  not  so  independent 
as  formerly. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  think  it  wise  to  intimidate 
the  courts? 


24  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

PENDLETON.     I  think  it  wise  to  discipline  them. 
Does  not  our  Governor  think  so? 
MRS.  FOSTER.     Does  he? 

PENDLETON.  Ah,  Mrs.  Foster,  you  are  banter 
ing  me.  Nobody  is  more  familiar  than  you  with 
the  Goyernor's  sentiments. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (sitting  down).  I've  not  heard 
him  discuss  politics  of  late.  Does  he  really  think 
the  courts  should  be  ...  disciplined  did  you 
say? 

PENDLETON.  Yes ;  I've  heard  him  speak  in  favor 
of  the  recall  of  decisions. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Indeed?  How  strange.  I've 
read  somewhere  that  that's  revolutionary. 

PENDLETON.  That's  what  the  reactionaries  call 
it. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Really?  I  wonder  if  I'm  a  re 
actionary!  What  would  you  call  me,  Mr.  Pendle- 
ton? 

PENDLETON  (puzzled.  He  meditates).  Mr.  Fos 
ter  says  you  know  more  about  politics  than  he  does, 
but  that  you  were  not  for  woman  suffrage  and  that 
you  don't  vote.  ...  I'd  call  you  a  paradox. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (laughing).  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a 
very  good  citizen  according  to  your  ideas. 

PENDLETON.  Would  you  like  to  read  Professor 
Rasmussen's  essay  on  "A  Woman's  Duty  to  the 
State"? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes ;  I'm  sure  I'd  enjoy  it. 

PENDLETON.     I'll  get  it  for  you. 

(He  goes  to  secretary's  office.  Mrs.  Foster  looks 
at  mirror  in  her  vanity  case,  goes  to  windoiv  and 
surveys  herself,  arranging  her  hair.  Just  as  she 
finishes  Governor  Hopkins  returns  hurriedly  and 
walks  tozvard  door  of  Pendleton's  office.  Mrs. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  25 

Foster  snaps  her  vanity  case  and  coughs,  thus  at 
tracting  his  attention.) 

HOPKINS  (in  great  surprise).  Well — my  dear 
Edith.  (They  approach  and  shake  hands.)  So 
you've  come  up  at  last.  (He  caresses  her  hand  and 
while  he  is  doing  so  Pendleton  returns.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Ah,  Mr.  Pendleton  has  some  in 
teresting  literature  for  me. 

PENDLETON.  Here  it  is,  Mrs.  Foster.  (He  hands 
the  pamphlet  to  her.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Thank  you.  (To  Governor  Hop 
kins.)  Some  instructive  political  literature. 

(Pendleton  withdraws.) 

HOPKINS  (ebulliently).  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see 
you. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  are? 

HOPKINS.  Indeed  I  am.  (He  kisses  her.)  Let 
me  see — it's  four  weeks  since  I  was  down  to  the 
city. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Five  weeks.  And  you  never 
wrote  me  a  line. 

HOPKINS.     Well  I've  been  kept  mighty  busy. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  should  fancy  so.  You  look 
overworked.  (She  sits  down.) 

HOPKINS  (throws  himself  into  revolving  chair  and 
sighs).  I  am  overworked. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     How  terribly  worried  you  look! 

HOPKINS.  In  this  office  a  man  doesn't  have  much 
peace  of  mind. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (in  a  tone  of  anxiety  and  concern). 
I  thought  something  was  wrong,  Charles.  What  I 
really  came  up  for  was  to  be  near  you. 

HOPKINS  (by  no  means  enthused).  That's  aw 
fully  kind  of  you,  dear. 


26 


MRS.  FOSTER  (his  coldness  being  apparent  to 
her).  Perhaps  you'd  rather  not  have  me  near  you. 

HOPKINS  (rising  and  apparently  in  an  agitated 
state  of  mind).  Don't  say  that,  Edith. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (rising  and  regarding  him  closely). 
What  has  come  over  you? 

HOPKINS  (pacing  up  and  down).  I'm  not  my 
self.  I'm  worn  to  a  frazzle.  I  wish  I  was  far 
away.  I  ought  to  go  into  the  mountains  and  take 
a  long  rest. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  seem  far  away  ...  to 
me. 

HOPKINS.  To  you?  (Drops  into  chair  near 
table  and  into  momentary  reverie  with  head  on 
hand,  as  if  in  state  of  profound  melancholy.  Pulls 
himself  together  quickly.)  Far  away  to  you? 
Edith — you  don't  understand. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  There  was  a  time,  Charles,  when 
our  understanding  of  each  other  was  almost 
clairvoyant.  Perhaps  my  perceptive  powers  are 
growing  feeble  with  years.  When  a  woman  gets  into 
the  thirties  she  is  no  longer  young.  (A  pause.) 
What  is  there  to  understand? 

HOPKINS.  My  dear  you  can  have  no  conception 
of  all  the  worries  I  am  having — all  the  irritations 
and  anxieties.  And  to  think  it  was  you  that  urged 
me  into  this  office ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Urged  you  into  it?  Are  you  re 
proaching  me  for  pointing  out  a  career  to  you  and 
helping  to  make  it  possible  for  you  to  enter  upon  it  ? 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  no  dear.  I  shouldn't  say  that. 
I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you.  I'm  not  myself  these 
days.  Edith,  the  only  comfort  I  get  in  this  office  is 
from  cursing  it. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that, 
Charles.  Why  should  you  curse  this  high  office 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  27 

where  there  is  so  much  of  honorable  duty  for  you 
to  perform? 

HOPKINS  (roused,  he  looks  at  her  intently).  You 
are  a  curious  woman,  Edith. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Am  I?    In  what  respect? 

HOPKINS.  You  take  no  part  in  politics,  and  yet 
you  take  politics  so  seriously. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Do  I?  Well,  I  suppose  it's  be 
cause  I  wish  to  see  you  do  well — do  all  that  is  ex 
pected  of  you.  In  that  way  you  can  make  me  feel 
that  I  have  done  some  good.  So  please  don't  curse 
the  office. 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  I've  been  so 
harassed  that  I've  lost  patience.  I'm  not  myself  at 
all. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Is  it  only  politics  that  has  changed 
you? 

HOPKINS  (catching  something  in  her  tone  that 
startles  him) .  What  else  do  you  think  could  change 
me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  there  are  many  things  that 
effect  changes  in  a  person. 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  but  what  greater  change  could 
be  wrought  in  a  man  than  the  change  that  has  taken 
place  in  my  career? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  shouldn't  call  it.  much  of  a 
change  for  a  lawyer  to  become  a  Governor.  You 
are  still  a  lawyer. 

HOPKINS.  Yes — yes — I'm  still  a  lawyer,  but 
what  else  am  I  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  Governor  of  the  State. 

HOPKINS  (bitterly).  And  the  exemplar  of  all  the 
virtues. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling).     Oh,  I  forgot  that. 


28  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

HOPKINS.  I  came  into  office  with  the  people 
singing  "Onward  Christian  Soldiers."  I'm  the  em 
bodiment  of  the  uplift  movement  .  .  .  and  I'm 
a  living  lie. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     What  do  you  mean? 

HOPKINS.  Don't  you  understand?  Don't  you  see 
the  change  you  have  wrought  in  my  life? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  change  I  have  wrought? 

HOPKINS  (now  intensely  emotional).  Yes,  yes! 
Who  was  it  that  turned  me  to  politics  ?  that  spurred 
me  on  to  the  career  I  am  following?  It  was  you, 
Edith.  You  made  a  new  man  of  me  and  I  rose  to 
place  and  power  on  the  stepping  stone  of  my  dead 
self.  I— 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  mean — 

HOPKINS.  I  mean  that  you  have  put  on  my 
shoulders  a  load  too  heavy  for  me  to  bear. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I? — you  mean — 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  I'm  not  reproaching  you,  Edith. 
I  mean  that  you  have  put  me  under  obligations  to 
your  husband.  Everybody  knows  he  financed  my 
campaign,  and  everybody  believes  me  the  soul  of 
honor. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Ah,  I  understand.  And  you  wish 
to  be  precisely  what  you  seem — a  worthy  ambition. 

HOPKINS.     Now  you  are  sarcastic. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Only  a  little  bit — amiably  sarcas 
tic.  I  understand  your  feelings,  Charles,  exactly. 
I  know  what  it  is  to  be  stung  by  conscience.  I  too 
have  had  a  load  to  bear. 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  dear.  I  know.  Oh,  I'm  glad 
you  understand.  I'm  losing  faith  in  myself,  but  my 
love  for  you — 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Is  dead! 

HOPKINS.     Do  you  believe  that? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  29 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Why  of  course.  And  that's  noth 
ing.  Love  is  eternal  only  in  fairy  tales.  We  have 
nothing  to  reproach  each  other  with.  But,  Charles, 
you  were  elected  Governor  to  purify  politics — not 
your  soul.  And  the  people  weren't  under  any 
delusion.  They  didn't  think  they  were  electing  a 
god.  (He  attempts  to  speak,  raising  his  hands 
deprecatingly.)  Now  the  only  thing  is  you  should 
n't  get  wrong  about  the  psychology  of  your  case. 
I  understand,  and  it's  all  right.  There's  nothing  to 
regret.  You  can  atone  for  both  of  us  by  proving 
yourself,  as  I  believe  you  will,  the  best  Governor 
the  State  ever  had. 

HOPKINS.     You  think  me  utterly  selfish. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (ironically).  Why  should  I  think 
anything  so  abominable? 

HOPKINS.     I  am  not  selfish.     It  is  not  wholly  my 
own  interest  that  I  am  consulting. 
MRS.  FOSTER.     No? 

HOPKINS.  I  am  thinking  of  you  as  well  as  of 
myself. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Of  me  ? 

HOPKINS.  This  is  a  small  town,  Edith.  There 
has  been  gossip  about  us. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Gossip? 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     About  me? 

HOPKINS.     About  you  and  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  We  have  seen  very  little  of  each 
other  in  this  town. 

HOPKINS.  Our  apartments  were  in  the  same 
hotel. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  My  husband,  and  his  niece  are  al 
ways  with  me. 


30  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

HOPKINS.  But,  Edith,  I  have  many  enemies 
nowadays. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  I  know,  and  you  must  guard 
yourself  against  them. 

HOPKINS.  Now,  Edith,  we  must  take  a  phil 
osophic  view  of  this  matter.  We  cannot  afford  to 
fly  in  the  face  of  circumstance.  The  talk  has  gone 
pretty  far,  and  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own  I'm 
going  to  disarm  suspicion. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

HOPKINS.  Let  us  go  inside.  I  must  have  a 
long  talk  with  you.  (He  approaches  her  with  love- 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  with  tenderness  in  his  voice.) 
And  you  must  not  think  ill  of  me.  You  must  un 
derstand. 

(Enter  Edward  Sawyer.  A  tall,  well-dressed 
man,  with  hair  prematurely  white  and  pallor  that 
marks  the  face  that  has  been  behind  prison  bars. 
He  has  the  manner  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  is 
always  being  watched.  He  sees  Mrs.  Foster,  and 
draws  back") 

HOPKINS  (sees  Sawyer  and  is  at  once  agitated). 
Oh,,  just  a  moment.  (To  Sawyer.)  Come  in,  Ned. 
I'll  see  you  in  a  moment. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (before  turning).     Shall  I  wait? 

HOPKINS.     Perhaps  tomorrow  will  do. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (turning  she  utters  herself  in  aston 
ishment).  Edward  Sawyer!  (A  pause.)  Aren't 
you  Ned  Sawyer? 

SAWYER.     Yes,  I'm  Ned. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  have  changed,  but,  oh,  I  re 
member  you  very  well. 

SAWYER.  I  haven't  forgotten  you.  You  haven't 
changed. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  31 

MRS.  FOSTER  (extending  her  hand,  which  he 
grasps  eagerly) .  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you ! 

HOPKINS  Well,  Ned,  I've  been  waiting  for  you. 
(To  Mrs.  Foster.)  I  never  knew  that  you  two  were 
acquainted. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling).  Oh,  we  are  old  friends. 
Aren't  we? 

SAWYER.     Yes — old  friends. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Well  I'll  be  going.  Good-bye. 
(She  extends  her  hand  again  and  he  clasps  it  eagerly 
and  warmly.) 

SAWYER    (still    holding    her    hand).     Good-bye. 

HOPKINS.     I'll  telephone  to  the  hotel  tomorrow. 

(She  nods  and  goes  out.) 

HOPKINS.    Well,  Ned ! 

SAWYER.     Did  you  get  my  letter? 

HOPKINS  (much  affected  kindliness).  Yes,  Ned, 
and  I've  been  waiting  for  you.  Come,  sit  down. 
(Sawyer  sits  near  table.)  Now  what  can  I  do  for 
you. 

SAWYER  (looking  round  the  office  as  though  ab 
sorbed  in  the  spectacle) .  Well !  Well ! 

HOPKINS.  You  wrote  that  there  was  something 
you  wanted. 

SAWYER  (suddenly  realizing  the  Governor's  pres 
ence.  He  speaks  as  though  his  mind  was  somewhat 
confused).  Pardon  me,  yes;  there  was  something. 
(A  pause.)  I  came  to  see  you  on  business. 

HOPKINS.     What  business? 

SAWYER  (again  looking  around.  A  note  of  sad 
ness  in  his  voice).  Times  have  changed,  haven't 
they? 

HOPKINS  (sympathetically).  Yes,  Ned,  they  have 
changed. 


32  A   FRIEND   OF   THE  PEOPLE 

SAWYER  (bitterly).  It's  more  than  two  years 
since  I  came  out  of  the  penitentiary.  And  this  is 
the  first  time  we  have  met. 

HOPKINS.     You  never  came  to  see  me. 

SAWYER.  No,  I  never  came.  (A  pause.)  Three 
years  behind  prison  bars,  and  you  never  come  to  see 
me. 

HOPKINS.  There  was  a  reason  for  that,  as  you 
know ;  but  what  is  it  you  want,  Ned  ? 

SAWYER.     I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  something. 
HOPKINS.     Yes;  what  is  it?     (A  pause.) 

SAWYER  (solemnly).  For  the  crime  I  was  found 
guilty  of,  I  have  paid  the  penalty.  (Laughs,  hyster 
ically.)  Think  of  it,  Hopkins,  I — I — paid  the  pen 
alty. 

HOPKINS  (perturbed.  Looks  around  as  though 
fearful  somebody  might  be  listening).  Calm  your 
self,  Ned.  Tell  me,  what  is  it  you  want  me  to  do. 

SAWYER  (with  gravity  and  measured  utterance). 
I  want  you  to  appoint  me — 

HOPKINS  (astonished).     To  appoint  you? 

SAWYER  (his  anger  rising;  also  himself).  Yes. 
Is  that  asking  too  much  of  you? 

HOPKINS  (rising.  He  is  getting  nervous).  Ap 
point  you  to  what? 

SAWYER.  You  know  I've  been  reinstated  at  the 
bar. 

HOPKINS.     Yes,  I  know. 

SAWYER.     I've  been  practicing  right  along  and — 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

SAWYER.    — now  I'd  like  to  go  on  the  bench. 

HOPKINS    (astonished).     On  the  bench? 

SAWYER.  Yes,  on  the  bench.  There's  a  vacancy, 
isn't  there?  A  judge  committed  suicide  yesterday. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  33 

HOPKINS.     You  want  me  to  make  a  judge  of — 

SAWYER.     An  ex-convict,  yes. 

HOPKINS.     Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,  Ned. 

SAWYER.     I  hope  not. 

HOPKINS  (looking  round  nervously).  Suppose 
we  come  inside  and  talk  it  over.  (He  moves  toward 
his  private  office.) 

SAWYER  (sits  down).  Let's  talk  it  over  right 
here. 

HOPKINS  (regaining  his  composure).  It's  more 
comfortable  in  there.  But,  just  as  you  please.  (Sits 
down.)  So  you  are  practicing  law  again. 

SAWYER.     Yes. 

HOPKINS  (looking  at  him  sharply).  You  are  in 
the  law  department  of  the  Blue  Mountain  Light  and 
Power  Company,  I  believe. 

SAWYER  (taking  out  a  cigarette  and  smiling 
grimly).  No;  not  just  now. 

HOPKINS.     Oh. 

SAWYER  (regarding  him  fixedly).  Your  friend 
Luke  Trask  notified  me  day  before  yesterday  that 
my  services  were  no  longer  required. 

HOPKINS.     I  see.     Any  trouble? 

SAWYER.     With  Trask? 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

SAWYER.     Don't  you  know? 

HOPKINS  (rising  and  ignoring  question).  Now, 
Ned,  I  want  to  do  something  for  you.  I'm  going 
to  do  something  for  you. 

SAWYER.  There's  but  one  thing  you  can  do  for 
me.  (A  pause.) 

HOPKINS.  Suppose  I  make  you  attorney  for  the 
Industrial  Commission  ?  (Sazvyer  shakes  his  head.) 
Be  reasonable,  Ned. 


34  A   FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

SAWYER.  I  can  practice  law  without  going  into 
politics. 

HOPKINS  (keenly  disappointed).  What  do  you 
think  the  newspapers  would  say  if  I  appointed  you 
to  the  bench! 

SAWYER.  If  the  Supreme  Court  reinstated  me  at 
the  bar  I'm  surely  qualified  for  the  bench. 

HOPKINS.  I'd  be  attacked  in  every  reactionary 
newspaper  in  the  State. 

SAWYER.  I  don't  see  that  they  are  pouring  out 
any  eulogies  at  present.  The  Lawrence  suicide  ap 
pears  to  have  given  them  a  world  of  inspiration. 

HOPKINS  (gloomily).     Yes. 

SAWYER.  What  a  sensation  it  would  cause  if 
they  knew  all ! 

HOPKINS  (sternly).     What  do  you  mean? 
SAWYER.     Precisely  what  you  think  I  mean. 

HOPKINS  (calming  himself).  Ah  ...  as  I 
supposed.  Those  letters  that  were  stolen — you 
have  them? 

SAWYER.     Perhaps. 

HOPKINS.     You'll  give  me  the  letters? 

SAWYER.     Am  I  to  be  appointed? 

HOPKINS.  I'll  think  it  over.  There's  no  hurry. 
The  appointment  of  Lawrence's  successor  can't  be 
decently  made  for  some  days. 

SAWYER.  No;  there's  no  hurry.  But  let  us  un 
derstand  each  other.  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  in 
tend  to  keep  those  letters  whatever  happens.  If 
you  appointed  me  for  the  nnexpired  term  I  should 
have  to  run  again.  (Smiles.)  I  may  need  the 
support  of  your  political  machine. 

HOPKINS.     Then  it's  a  bargain  you  wish  to  make? 
SAWYER.    Yes. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  35 

(Dolan  comes  in  and  goes  to  writing  table  and 
Hopkins  becomes  more  uneasy.) 

HOPKINS  (his  tone  and  manner  changing).  Well, 
Ned,  I  want  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  you  more 
fully.  When  can  you  come  in  again. 

SAWYER  (carelessly).     Any  time. 

HOPKINS.  Make  it  tomorrow  afternoon  about 
3:30. 

SAWYER.     Very  well.     (He  goes  out.) 

(Hopkins  shudders  and  sinks  into  chair  by  table.) 

DOLAN   (eagerly).    What's  up,  Governor? 

HOPKINS  (in  collapse).    I  don't  feel  well. 

(CURTAIN) 


ACT  II 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  Act  I;  time  the  after 
noon  of  the  fott&uring  day.  Dolan  is  seated  in  re 
volving  chair  reading  a  small  book  bound  in  calf. 
Pendleton  enters  from  inner  office. 

DOLAN.     Say,  Pendy ! 

PENDLETON.     Yes,  sir. 

DOLAN.  Have  you  seen  the  Governor  about  that 
meeting  ? 

PENDLETON.     The  League  of  Justice  meeting? 
DOLAN.     Yes. 

PENDLETON.     No,  sir,  I  haven't  seen  him. 
DOLAN.     Well  don't  tear  things  loose  till  you  do. 
(Telephone  rings,  Dolan  answers.) 

DOLAN.  Hello!  Yes,  this  is  Dolan.  (Pause.) 
Yes,  I  recognize  your  voice.  (Pause.)  Tonight? 
All  right  at  the  Capital  Hotel.  All  right  I'll  find 
out  what  time  it  will  be  convenient  for  him.  Good 
work,  Tom.  Good!  Good!  (Hangs  up;  rising  in 
great  glee.)  That's  where  I  put  one  over,  hm? 
Nothing  like  doing  a  little  practical  politics  once  in 
a  while — what  do  you  think,  Pendy — hm? 

PENDLETON.     I    don't — 

DOLAN.  Don't  get  me,  hm?  Well,  I'll  tell  you. 
I  suggested  to  some  of  the  boys  of  the  Good  Govern 
ment  League  that  we  might  do  something  to  offset 


273763 


38  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

this  Lawrence  reaction — told  'em  it  wouldn't  be  a 
bad  idea  to  celebrate  the  adoption  of  the  Constitu 
tional  amendments.  So  they're  going  to  have  a 
mass-meeting  in  front  of  the  hotel  tonight — a  big 
jollification  and  serenade,  something  spontaneous, 
hm — speech  by  the  Governor.  What  do  you  think 
of  it — hm? 

PENDLETON  (his  eyes  sparkling j.     Excellent  idea ! 

DOLAN.  Worse  than  that,  Pendy.  It's  a  stroke 
of  genius  at  the  psychological  moment. 

(Hopkins  enters  from  private  office  with  his  hat 
on.) 

DOLAN.  I  say,  Governor,  Pendleton  is  getting 
ready  for  another  meeting  of  the  League  of  Justice. 

HOPKINS.     Hm.     Better  not  have  one  for  awhile. 

DOLAN  (to  Hopkins).  Better  adjourn  the  League 
sine  die,  don't  you  think  ? 

HOPKINS.  No  more  meetings  for  the  present, 
Pendleton. 

PENDLETON   (gloomily).     Very  well,  sir. 

HOPKINS.  And  Pendleton,  I'd  rather  not  have 
Miss  Colton  taking  an  active  interest  in  politics  in 
the  future. 

PENDLETON.  Good  gracious,  sir,  it  would  break 
her  heart. 

HOPKINS  (smiling  at  Dolan).  I'll  take  care  of 
that,  Pendleton. 

PENDLETON.     Very  well,  sir. 

DOLAN.  Oh,  before  I  forget  it.  That  Good 
Government  meeting  is  all  right.  They'll  be  down 
to  the  hotel  with  a  brass  band.  It's  up  to  you  to 
set  the  time. 

HOPKINS  (laughing).     You're  a  wonder,  Larry. 
(Dolan  beams.)     I'll  be  ready  for  them — let  me  see. 
make  it  about  nine. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  39 

DOLAN.     All  right,  sir. 

(Hopkins  goes  out.) 

PENDLETON  (sadly) .     Well,  you've  had  your  way. 

DOLAN.  Yes.  And  I  was  right  too.  You've  got 
a  lot  to  learn  about  practical  politics,  Pendy. 

PENDLETON.  I  suppose  so.  I've  had  very  little 
to  do  with  politics  and  politicians.  With  you  politics 
is  a  profession. 

DOLAN.     Yes,    I    inherited   a   taste    for   politics. 

(Dunstan  enters.  Dolan  is  still  glancing  through 
little  book.) 

DUNSTAN.     Hello!  studying  law,  Larry? 

DOLAN  (putting  book  on  desk).  Law  be  hanged! 
This  isn't  law. 

DUNSTAN.     No? 

DOLAN.     A  volume  of  the  codes. 

DUNSTAN  (laughs).  Oh.  Made  at  the  last 
session? 

DOLAN  (smiles)  Hardly.  Our  boys  did  a  lot  of 
work  but  not  this  much. 

DUNSTAN.     They  were  certainly  industrious. 

DOLAN.  Attended  to  everything  God  forgot, 
hm — everything  from  bird  cages  to  accident  in 
surance. 

DUNSTAN.  And  now  Pendleton  is  supplying 
editorials  to  all  the  Administration  organs  proving 
it  was  the  brainiest  parliamentary  body  that  ever 
was. 

PENDLETON.  Mr.  Dunstan,  you're  a  bigot — that's 
what  you  are! 

DOLAN.     Good  for  you,  Pendy ! 

DUNSTAN.     Ah,  a  bigot? 

PENDLETON.  Yes,  a  bigot ;  intolerant  of  every 
body  who  wants  clean  government. 


40  A   FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

DUNSTAN.  Tolerance,  my  dear  fellow,  is  the 
virtue  demanded  of  the  man  on  the  other  side. 
Have  you  got  it? 

(Pendleton  turns  wrathfully  on  his  heels  and 
goes  into  private  office.) 

DUNSTAN.     What  a  hypocrite ! 

DOLAN.  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Fred.  The 
least  you  can  say  of  him  is  that  he's  sincere. 

DUNSTAN.     Sincere? 

DOLAN.     Don't   you   believe   anybody's    sincere? 

DUNSTAN.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I  believe  the 
world  is  full  of  sincerity.  It's  the  fat-witted  sin 
cerity  of  the  dear  people  that  keeps  reformers  alive. 

DOLAN.  Say,  Fred,  you  ought  to  take  something 
for  that.  (Rises.)  You're  eaten  up  with  cynicism. 
(Dunstan  regards  him  in  mock  amazement.  Dolan 
starts  for  his  private  office.) 

DUNSTAN.  Hold  on  here,  I'd  like  to  discuss  that 
with  you. 

DOLAN.  I've  got  a  job  in  here  with  a  typewriter. 
Sit  down  for  a  while. 

DUNSTAN.     Where  is  the  Governor? 

DOLAN.  He'll  be  in  shortly.  Take  a  chair  and 
read  your  own  paper.  It'll  put  you  to  sleep. 

(Dolan  goes  in.  Dunstan  sits  down  and  takes  a 
newspaper  file.  Presently  Mrs.  Foster  enters.) 

DUNSTAN  (rising  hastily  and  going  forward  to 
greet  her).  Well,  Mrs.  Foster.  Welcome  to  our 
capital ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  How  do  you  do,  Fred.  (They 
shake  hands  cordially.) 

DUNSTAN.     I  knew  you  were  in  town. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'm  of  so  great  importance  the 
parochial  dailies  of  the  capital  always  mention  my 
arrival. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  41 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  I  knew  it  before  I  saw  it  in  the 
papers.  (She  looks  inquiringly.)  Yes,  I  met  Miss 
Colton  here  yesterday. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Ah,  you  did? 

DUNSTAN.  Yes,  what  a  busy  politician  she's  get 
ting  to  be. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     So  I  believe. 

DUNSTAN.  A  sort  of  lieutenant-governor,  isn't 
she? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Is  it  as  bad  as  that? 

DUNSTAN  (laughing).  That's  what  the  press 
gang  are  saying.  I  saw  her  motoring  with  the 
Governor  yesterday.  (Mrs.  Foster  starts.)  And 
I  suppose  they  were  discussing  affairs  of  State. 
For  certainly  a  bachelor  and  a  maid  could  find 
nothing  more  to  their  taste  on  a  pleasure  drive  in 
the  merry  month  of  May. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No.  I  suppose  not.  (Slightly 
overcome  she  sits  down.)  I  wonder  if  the  Gov 
ernor  is  in! 

DUNSTAN.  No,  he  isn't.  I'm  waiting  for  him. 
.  .  .  A  very  charming  girl — your  husband's 
niece. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  indeed  she  is. 

DUNSTAN.  And  very  ardently  in  sympathy  with 
the  Administration. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Naturally,  considering  her  uncle's 
relations  with  the  Governor. 

DUNSTAN.  It  just  occurs  to  me,  Mrs.  Foster, 
that  a  little  romance  may  be  in  progress  right  un 
der  my  nose.  You  won't  let  me  be  scooped,  will 
you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Scooped? 

DUNSTAN.  Yes.  I  think  Dolan  knows,  but  he's 
so  close-mouthed !  Now  in  the  old  days  you  used 


42  A    FRIEND    OF    THE    PEOPLE 

to  give  me  many  a  good  piece  of  news.  It  would 
be  worth  while  to  announce  the  engagement  of  our 
bachelor  Governor. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  I  suppose  it  would. 

DUNSTAN.     You  appreciate  that. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Indeed  I  do.  And  I'll  not  let  you 
be  scooped.  So  you  think  it's  getting  to  that  point. 

DUNSTAN  (laughing).  You  know  I  have  a  well- 
developed  instinct  for  news.  ...  I  have  my 
suspicions. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  How  interesting!  And  is  your 
only  concern  that  of  a  newspaper  man  on  the  qui  vive 
for  news?  You  know  I  used  to  think  you  were 
very  fond  of  Rosalie. 

DUNSTAN.  That  I — was? — Oh  yes,  I  was,  and  I 
am  yet. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     And  I  used  to  think  she  liked  you. 

DUNSTAN.     You  did?    Honestly? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  I  know  she  did. 

DUNSTAN  (sadly).  I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  now. 
Politics,  I  fear,  has  estranged  us.  She's  a  little 
bigot  in  politics. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling).  Rosalie  is  a  bit  tem 
peramental  and  a  little  whimsical  in  her  enthusiasms. 
I'm  afraid  you  are  not  a  very  aggressive  wooer. 
(He  looks  at  her  interrogatively.)  Rosalie  is  a 
castle  that  must  be  stormed.  The  attack  must  be 
furious. 

DUNSTAN  (lugubriously).  I'm  afraid  it's  too 
late.  The  enemy  has  taken  it. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No,  it's  not  too  late.  (He  braces 
up  and  is  all  attention.)  Rosalie  isn't  in  love. 
When  a  girl  is  in  love  her  feelings  express  them 
selves  violently,  like  superlatives,  and  she  is  full  of 
joy.  Rosalie  is  occupied  with  political  problems. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  43 

DUNSTAN.     Then — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  She  is  the  sort  of  girl  that  a  man 
must  go  to  straight  as  a  bullet,  and  seize  not 
gently,  by  the  tip  of  the  wing,  but  aggressively,  like 
a  policeman.  (He  laughs.) 

(Pendleton  appears  at  door  of  inner  office.  Mrs. 
Foster  rises.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  Mr.  Pendleton,  I  want  to  see 
you. 

PENDLETON.     Will  you  come  in? 

(Mrs.  Foster  nods  and  turning  to  Dunstan  bows 
by  way  of  leavetaking  and  goes  in.  Dunstan  rubs 
his  chin  thoughtfully.  He  is  in  a  deep  brown  study 
as  Dolan  returns.) 

DUNSTAN.  So,  Larry,  you  think  I'm  eaten  up 
with  cynicism? 

DOLAN  (laughs).  Kind  of  got  under  your  skin, 
did  I  ?  Hm.  The  fat-witted  public !  You  think  the 
people  need  a  guardian? 

DUNSTAN.     That's  one  way  of  putting  it. 

DOLAN  (triumphantly).  And  old  Abe  Lincoln, 
hm — he  didn't  know  what  he  was  talking  about 
when  he  said  you  can't  fool  all  of  'em  all  the  time. 

DUNSTAN.  What  old  Abe  meant  was  that  you 
can't  fool  them  in  precisely  the  same  way.  Per 
haps  you  can't.  But  you  can  hand  them  a  gold 
brick  this  week  and  short  change  them  the  next. 

DOLAN.     Think  so? 

DUNSTAN.  That's  what  politicians  are  doing  to 
them  right  along — the  popular  ones ! 

DOLAN.     You  think  it's  a  crime  to  be  popular. 
DUNSTAN.     No ;  only  a  grovmd  for  suspicion. 
DOLAN.     That's  why  you  love  to  smash  the  Gov 
ernor,  I  suppose. 


44  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

DUNSTAN.  Wrong  verb,  Larry.  (Gesticulates 
as  though  gently  snapping  a  whip.)  Flick — that's 
the  verb.  Occasionally  I  flick  him  on  the  raw. 

DOLAN.  Well,  you  ought  to  quit.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  fellows  on  the  Post — got  a  griev 
ance? 

DUNSTAN.  Nary  a  grievance.  We  hae  our 
doots. 

DOLAN.     Ah,  rot! 

DUNSTAN.  By  the  way  what  about  Trask  and  the 
Octopus  ? 

DOLAN.     What  are  you  driving  at? 

(Enter  Governor  Hopkins  with  Cyrus  Foster. 
Foster  is  in  the  sixties.  He  is  a  bon  viveur  and 
looks  it,  but  wears  a  somewhat  jaunty  air  the  affecta 
tion  of  which  is  an  effort.  For  an  old  man  his  at 
tire  is  almost  foppish.  His  laughter  is  heard  just  be 
fore  they  enter.  Foster  enters  first  and  he  is  talking. 
His  voice  is  somewhat  husky.  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
man  who  likes  good  liquor.) 

FOSTER.  It  will  take  her  off  her  pins,  Charles,  my 
boy.  She  hasn't  the  faintest  suspicion.  Well  I 
congratulate — (he  sees  Dunstan  and  Dolan  and  stops 
talking.  Bows  to  them.)  Dunstan,  how  are  you? 

DUNSTAN.  I'm  very  well,  thank  you.  (To  Hop 
kins.)  How  do  you  do,  Governor. 

HOPKINS  (bows  stiffly).  How  are  you,  sir.  (To 
Foster.)  Come  right  in.  (He  starts  for  private 
office.) 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Governor,  just  a 
moment,  please. 

HOPKINS.     Well,  sir? 

DUNSTAN.  They've  wired  me  from  the  office  to 
see  you  about  the  resolutions  of  the  Bar  Association. 

HOPKINS.     Resolutions?     What  resolutions? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  45 

FOSTER  (to  Dolan).  Looks  as  though  this  is  go 
ing  to  be  one  of  those  newspaper  interviews.  (Dolan 
smiles  and  nods.  Foster  sits  down.) 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  I  thought  you  heard.  Eulogiz 
ing  Judge  Lawrence  and  deploring  the  persecution 
that  drove  him  to  suicide. 

HOPKINS.     Hm.    Well? 

DUNSTAN.     Do  you  care  to  discuss  the  matter? 

FOSTER  (rising  and  zvalking  toward  window). 
I  should  think  he  had  more  important  business  to 
talk  about. 

HOPKINS.  I  have  no  interest  in  the  Bar  Associa 
tion  .  .  .  except  as  an  humble  member. 

DUNSTAN.  But  isn't  it  a  matter  of  personal  in 
terest  to  you  inasmuch  as  it  is  understood  that  the 
Administration  was  in  sympathy  with  the  recall 
movement  ? 

HOPKINS.     Understood?    By  whom? 

DUNSTAN.  I  believe  the  newspapers  have  said 
so. 

HOPKINS.  I  have  nothing  to  say  on  the  subject, 
further  than  that  the  Administration  is  proud  of  the 
enemies  it  has  made.  I  have  dedicated  my  services 
to  the  people  of  this  State  for  the  purification  of  its 
politics  and  the  uplift  of  my  fellow  man,  and  I  am 
not  to  be  intimidated  by  intriguing  politicians. 

FOSTER  (impatiently).  Say,  Dunstan,  what  do 
you  want  to  be  bothering  the  Governor  for?  He's 
a  busy  man. 

DUNSTAN.  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Foster.  I'm  attend 
ing  to  my  duty.  (To  Hopkins.)  Then  you  think 
the  Bar  Association  is  controlled  by  your  enemies. 

HOPKINS.     I  have  not  said  so. 
FOSTER.     What  damned  nonsense ! 


46  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

DUNSTAN.  Beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  im 
plied — 

HOPKINS.  Has  the  Bar  Association  charged  me 
with  having  persecuted  anybody? 

DUNSTAN.  As  I  understand  it  no  names  are 
mentioned  in  the  resolutions. 

HOPKINS.     Very  well.     (He  again  turns  to  go.) 

DUNSTAN.  Oh,  beg  your  pardon ;  one  word  more. 
(Hopkins  again  turns,  and  shows  signs  of  im 
patience.)  Have  you  heard  of  the  indignation 
meeting  to  be  held  down  in  the  city  ? 

HOPKINS   (much  annoyed).     No,  I  have  not. 

DUNSTAN.  It  has  been  called  to  voice  public  sen 
timent  on  the  crime  against  the  bench. 

HOPKINS.     And  pray  what's  that? 

DOLAN  (who  has  been  writing  during  the  con 
versation).  Sounds  like  the  name  of  a  melodrama. 

FOSTER  (disgusted).  Exactly.  (Goes  toward 
Hopkins'  private  office.)  Well,  I'll  see  you,  Gov 
ernor,  when  Dunstan  gets  through  with  his  duty. 
(He  goes  in.) 

DUNSTAN.  The  crime  of  the  century  has  refer 
ence  to  the  movement  that  ended  with  the  Lawrence 
tragedy. 

HOPKINS  (sneers).  An  indignation  meeting! 
The  interests  must  be  behind  that.  (Again  turns 
to  go.) 

DUNSTAN.     Shall  I  quote  you? 

HOPKINS  (his  voice  tremulous  with  rage).  You 
may  quote  just  what  I  said. 

DUNSTAN.  Just  what  you  said.  I  never  mis 
quote. 

HOPKINS.     Hm !     (He  walks  toward  his  office.) 
DUNSTAN  (near  door  at  back).     So  long,  Larrj 


47 


(Dunstan  goes  out.     Hopkins  turns  around.) 

DOLAN.     Seems  to  think  he  had  a  fine  interview. 

HOPKINS.  That  fellow  irritates  me.  I  know  he 
doesn't  like  me. 

DOLAN.  And  the  Post  doesn't  like  you  either. 
They're  behind  all  this  agitation,  and  they're  mak 
ing  a  lot  of  noise. 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  pshaw,  it'll  blow  over  soon. 
(Rises  and  paces  up  and  down,  evidently  worried.) 
I'm  not  going  to  let  it  bother  me.  (A  pause.)  I'm 
expecting  that  fellow  Sawyer  in  this  afternoon. 
He's  on  my  nerves  worse  than  anything. 

DOLAN.     Want  me  to  get  rid  of  him? 

HOPKINS  (still  walking  and  in  a  reverie).  Listen, 
Larry,  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  give  that  fellow  what 
he  wants. 

DOLAN.     You   don't  mean  it ! 

HOPKINS.     Yes,  I  do. 

DOLAN.  Why,  everybody  knows  his  record — the 
looting  of  the  estate  and  the  whole  business. 

HOPKINS  (looks  around  in  alarm).  Yes,  but  he 
has  been  reinstated  at  the  bar.  Notwithstanding  his 
conviction  he  stands  well  in  his  profession.  You 
know  there  has  always  been  a  doubt  of  his  guilt. 

DOLAN.     What  job  does  he  want? 

HOPKINS.  He  wants  to  go  on  the  bench — to  fill 
the  vacancy. 

DOLAN.     Great  Scott!     You  can't  give  him  that. 

HOPKINS.  I  don't  need  to  appoint  him  right 
away.  (Pause.)  There's  lots  of  time.  You  know 
how  these  things  die  out. 

DOLAN.     The  papers  will  make  an  awful  roar. 

HOPKINS.  Larry,  this  man  was  a  friend  of  mine 
when  I  needed  a  friend. 


48  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

DOLAN.  Well,  Governor,  that's  different.  The 
hell  with  the  papers  v/hen  it's  a  case  of  standing  by 
a  friend.  Though  it's  asking  a  whole  lot  of  you. 
(A  Pause.) 

HOPKINS  (coming  out  of  reverie).  And  besides 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  afford  to  turn  him  down.  (Dolan 
looks  inquiringly.)  That  is,  ...  The  papers 
will  shriek,  won't  they? 

DOLAN.  They  surely  will.  (A  pause.).  Has  he 
been  practicing  law  right  along? 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  he's  been  in  Trask's  law  depart 
ment. 

DOLAN  (startled)  with  the  Blue  Mountain — ! 
Working  for  Trask  ?  That's  bad !  Damned  bad ! 

HOPKINS.     But  he's  out  of  there  now. 

DOLAN.     Dunstan  was  asking  about  Trask. 

HOPKINS.     He  was? 

DOLAN.  Says  the  Post  wants  to  know  when 
you're  going  to  drive  him  out  of  politics. 

HOPKINS.     Hm ! 

DOLAN.  Governor,  if  I  were  you,  hm?  I'd  write 
a  sizzling  message  to  the  Legislature  on  the  im 
portance  of  retrenchment  and  economy.  That's 
what  the  people  are  ripe  for.  It  will  take  their 
minds  off  political  frame-ups. 

HOPKINS  (laughing).  Where  did  you  get  that 
idea? 

DOLAN.  Learned  that  years  ago  when  I  was 
Mayor  Patton's  secretary.  Remember  Boss  Flan- 
nigan,  hm? 

HOPKINS.     Old  Pat  Flannigan? 

DOLAN.  Yes,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him. 
Heard  him  say  to  Patton  one  day :  "Thomas,  no  mat 
ter  what  false  gods  the  people  are  running  after,  you 
can  get  them  back  to  the  true  religion  by  appealing 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  49 

to  their  pocket  nerve.  Be  strong  for  retrenchment 
and  low  taxes." 

HOPKINS.  Sounds  good.  But  the  trouble  is  the 
cost  of  government  has  been  going  up.  (Smiles.) 
Reform  comes  high. 

DOLAN.  That's  not  your  fault.  The  Legislature 
went  crazy. 

HOPKINS.     I  should  say  it  did. 

(Hopkins  goes  into  his  office.  Dolan  takes  some 
papers  and  is  about  to  go  into  his  office  when  Mrs. 
Foster  comes  out  of  Pendleton's  room.) 

DOLAN.     Oh,    Mrs.    Foster,    how    do    you    do. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Dolan.  I've 
just  been  in  talking  to  Mr.  Pendleton  about  Rosalie. 
Did  you  know  she  was  going  to  make  a  speech  at 
the  League  of  Justice  meeting? 

DOLAN  (smiles).  There  isn't  going  to  be  any 
meeting. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  So  I've  just  learned.  We're 
afraid  that  Rosalie  is  becoming  a  little  too  prom 
inent  in  politics. 

DOLAN  (confidentially  in  a  loiv  tone  after  glanc 
ing  round  at  the  Governor's  door).  Between  our 
selves — hm — that's  what  he  thinks. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  Governor? 

DOLAN.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (agitated).  Oh.  .  .  .  He  told 
you  so? 

DOLAN.     Yes,  and  he's  probably  told  her. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  hope  he  has. 

DOLAN  (looking  for  a  book  in  rack).  If  he  hasn't 
he  will. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (seeking  information).  I  believe 
they  were  motoring  yesterday. 


50  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

DOLAN.     Yes,  the  Governor  has  a  new  car,  and 
it's  a  beauty. 
MRS.  FOSTER.     So  Rosalie  says. 

DOLAN.  Guess  she'll  be  doing  a  lot  of  riding  in 
it  now. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  yes,  she  will.  (A  pause. 
Do  Ian  now  busy  searching  for  paper  in  drawer.) 
Of  course  Rosalie  oughtn't  to  be  so  active  in  public 
affairs.  And  I'm  glad  the  Governor  sees  the  folly 
of  it. 

DOLAN.  Yes,  yes, — I  thought  he  would — didn't 
you? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (rises).  Oh,  yes,  I  thought  he 
would. 

DOLAN  (finds  paper.  Smiles  knowingly).  Nat 
urally,  hm?  (Rises.)  You're  not  going? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (going  toward  door).  Yes,  I  sup 
pose  the  Governor  is  busy. 

DOLAN.  Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  Mr.  Foster  is 
with  him. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     My  husband  ? 
(Governor's  door  opens.) 

HOPKINS    (just  inside  doorway).     Larry,   when 
Sawyer  comes  tell  him  to  wait. 
DOLAN.     All  right,  sir. 

(Mrs.  Foster  has  turned  at  sound  of  Governor's 
door  and  she  comes  forward.) 

HOPKINS  (sees  Mrs.  Foster  and  comes  out  of  his 
office) .  Edith !  you  here  ? 

(Dolan  goes  into  his  private  office.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (pleasantly).  Have  I  given  you  a 
shock  ? 

HOPKINS.     You    startled   me   a   little.     I   didn't 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  51 

know  anybody  was  here.  (He  shakes  hands  cor 
dially.)  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  came  in  to  inquire  about  Rosalie. 
(She  regards  him  closely.) 

HOPKINS  (somezvhat  startled).     About  Rosalie? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes.  .  .  .  Cyrus  has  prob 
ably  told  you  that  he  has  been  worried  about  her. 
He  thought  she  was  going  to  speak  at  a  meeting 
of  the  League  of  Justice. 

HOPKINS  (smiling).     He's  inside  there  now. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     So  Mr.  Dolan  was  just  saying. 

HOPKINS.  Yes.  We've  talked  about  Rosalie. 
I've  put  a  stop  to  it. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  What's  the  matter?  You  look 
terribly  worried. 

HOPKINS.     I  am  terribly  worried. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     What's  the  trouble? 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  this  Lawrence  matter  has  upset 
me  somewhat.  The  newspapers  aren't  any  too  kind 
to  me  these  days,  and  you  know  I'm  not  used  to 
being  attacked.  (He  throws  himself  into  a  chair.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I've  never  seen  you  look  so  de 
pressed.  Why,  Charles,  I'm  astonished  that  a  big 
strong  man  like  you  should  let  the  newspapers 
affect  him  so. 

HOPKINS  (rising).  Oh,  I  suppose  it  is  foolish  to 
let  them  worry  me.  (Paces  up  and  down.)  Life 
would  be  easy  if  we  could  dispose  of  its  troubles 
by  ignoring  them.  (Sinks  down  again  in  a  state 
of  depression.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  look  as  though  you  expected 
a  visit  from  his  Satanic  majesty. 

HOPKINS  (looks  at  her  in  astonishment).  More 
proof  of  your  wonderful  power  of  intuition. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (laughing).     Aha!    Then  you  have 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

a  secret!  When  one  has  anything  to  hide,  one 
should  lose  no  time  in  revealing  it — to  the  right 
confessor.  Come,  tell  me  all  about  it. 

HOPKINS.  I  was  only  alluding  to  an  expected 
visitor.  I'd  as  lief  meet  the  old  boy  himself  as  the 
one  that's  coming.  (Looks  at  his  watch.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Really!  Whats  the  nature  ot 
this  terrible  expected  apparition? 

HOPKINS  (gloomily  thinking  aloud).  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  about  him. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Let  me  suggest.  (He  shakes  his 
head,  and  has  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes.)  There 
was  a  time,  Charles,  when  you  came  to  me  with 
all  your  troubles.  Do  you  begrudge  me  an  interest 
in  them  now? 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Edith !  (He  rises 
and  looks  toward  his  private  office  apprehensively.) 
I  wish  he'd  go. 

(Mrs.  Foster  goes  to  door  and  knocks.  Foster 
appears.) 

FOSTER.     Oh,  it's  you,  dear. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  I  came  in  about  Rosalie. 

FOSTER.  Well,  its  all  right.  (Smiles  knozvingly 
at  Hopkins.)  Charles  has  fixed  it.  Nothing  more 
to  worry  about — not  a  thing. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Then  it's  all  right. 

FOSTER.  Absolutely.  Rosalie  will  be  kept  out 
of  politics  after  this.  (He  is  bursting  with  a  big 
secret.).  The  Governor  will  pass  a  special  act  if 
necessary  keeping  her  out.  Eh,  Governor? 

HOPKINS  (trying  to  smile).  I  guess  there'll  be 
no  need  of  that. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (to  Foster).  Oh,  the  Governor  and 
I  have  some  important  matters  to  talk  over. 

FOSTER.     Well,   I  like  that!     That  means  three 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  S3 

are  a  crowd,  I  suppose.  What  are  the  important 
matters  that  I  should  not  hear  I'd  like  to  know? 
(He  beams  on  his  wife.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  may  hear  them  all,  dear ;  but 
you're  so  impatient  and  I  fear  you'd  be  bored  to 
death.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  are  not  important, 
as  you  ought  to  know,  else  you'd  be  told  all  about 
them. 

HOPKINS.  Mrs.  Foster  wishes  to  give  me  some 
advice. 

FOSTER.  Well,  she  can  certainly  do  that,  Charles. 
(To  Mrs.  Foster.)  What  a  great  statesman  you'd 
make. ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Now,  Cyrus! 

FOSTER.  Well,  politician,  then.  You  ought  to 
be  chairman  of  the  Governor's  campaign  committee. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (impatiently).  Nonsense!  Don't 
be  silly.  Come,  now,  I  must  get  back  to  the  hotel 
in  a  little  while. 

FOSTER.     Oh,  you  want  me  to  go. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No,  stay  if  you  like,  while  I  talk 
over  this  Minimum  Wage  question  with  Charles. 

FOSTER  (sputtering).  Minimum — what — No,  I'll 
be  damned  if  I  do.  I  prefer  to  go  to  the  Capitol 
Club  and  have  a  high  ball.  (He  goes  out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Dear  old  Cyrus!  Now  let  me 
hear  what  the  trouble  is.  You  know  I  feel  some 
what  responsible  for  the  Governor  of  the  State. 

HOPKINS.  Responsible?  (She  smiles  and  nods.) 
Oh,  I  see,  my  sponsor.  (Somewhat  lugubriously.) 
Yes,  indeed,  you  are  responsible.  You  are  more 
than  my  sponsor;  you  are  my  creator. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  don't  be  so  solemn.  Come 
now,  for  the  present  let  me  be  no  more  than  your — 
your  friend.  What  a  strange  sound  the  word  has ! 


54  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

Tell  me,  who  is  this  man  that  gives  you  so  much 
concern  ? 

HOPKINS  (suddenly  alert).  Come  to  think  of  it, 
you  know  him.  You  were  speaking  to  him  yester 
day — right  here.  It's  Ned  Sawyer. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Ned  Sawyer!  (A  pause.)  He 
was  my  first  beau. 

HOPKINS.     Your  first  beau? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  When  I  was  a  bashful  maid  of 
nineteen.  Come  don't  be  so  melancholy.  You  look 
as  though  you  were  going  to  prison.  What  is  the 
trouble  about  Ned  Sawyer? 

HOPKINS.  The  trouble  is  this — he  wants  an  ap 
pointment — wants  to  go  on  the  bench.  (Slight 
pause.)  Oh,  it's  impossible !  You  know  the  scrape 
he  was  in,  the — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes.  I  read  about  it — something 
about  an  estate.  But  supposing  he  does  want  an 
appointment,  you  don't  have  to  appoint  him,  do  you  ? 

HOPKINS.     I'm  afraid  I  do. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  don't  understand. 

HOPKINS.  When  he  got  into  that  trouble,  Edith, 
I  was  connected  with  the  Public  Administrator's 
office.  The  office  had  charge  of  the  estate.  It  was 
a  case  of  no  heirs.  And — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  I  remember  now — a  case  of 
a  fictitious  heir,  wasn't  it? 

HOPKINS.  That  was  it.  And  you  see  I  was 
kind  of  responsible — the  office  having  charge  of  it. 
It  was  a  case  of  defrauding  the  State.  The  money 
should  have  gone  to  the  State  there  being  no  heirs, 
but  it  went  to  a  dummy. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     But  what  claim  has  Sawyer — 
HOPKINS.     Oh,  he  hasn't  any  claim  exactly.     You 
see  we  were  friends,  and  he  might  have  been  ugly 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  55 

about  it — he  might  have — well  you  know  how  it  is 
in  law.  You  can  easily  put  the  blame  on  the  other 
fellow. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh.  (A  pause.)  Then  it's  a 
debt  of  gratitude  he — 

HOPKINS.  He  doesn't  put  it  that  way.  Of  course 
in  a  way  I'm  grateful,  but  the  situation  now  is 
such  that  he  might  give  my  political  enemies  a  lot 
of  aid  and  comfort. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Perhaps  you  are  needlessly 
alarmed.  I  can't  believe  that  Ned  Sawyer  would 
be  so  contemptible.  As  a  young  man  he  was  a 
very  lovely  character.  Suppose  I  talk  to  him? 

HOPKINS.     What  could  you  say  to  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  At  this  moment  I  haven't  any  idea 
as  to  what  I  should  say,  but  it  won't  take  me  long  to 
fathom  his  mind.  I  think  he'd  do  a  great  deal  for 
me.  I'm  sure  he'll  be  frank  with  me. 

HOPKINS.     Do  you  think  he's  still  fond  of  you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Would  you  regard  that  as  in 
credible  ? 

HOPKINS.     Now,  Edith,  don't — 

MRS.  FOSTER  (laughs)  You  know  some  men  are 
curious  sentimentalists.  Their  first  impressions  are 
lasting  unless  they  have  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
disillusioned.  The  truth  is,  Charles,  if  my  mother 
hadn't  been  money-mad  Ned  Sawyer  would  now  be 
my  husband. 

HOPKINS.     Your  husband? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  For  having  been  a  dutiful  daughter 
I  became  an  indifferent  wife.  (She  laughs.) 

HOPKINS.     Oh,  don't — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  now  I  think  I'll  take  to  re 
ligion.  But  meanwhile  let  me  concern  myself  just 
a  little  more  about  your  affairs. 


56  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

(By  this  time  Hopkins  is  beset  with  conflicting 
emotions.  He  doesn't  know  what  to  say.  He  looks 
at  his  watch.) 

HOPKINS.     He  ought  to  be  here  soon. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (a  look  of  scorn  flashes  across  her 
face).  Have  you  lost  all  your  self-assurance?  I'm 
astonished.  Where  is  all  the  moral  courage  that 
used  to  carry  you  through?  Does  politics  make 
cowards  of  men? 

HOPKINS  (who  has  been  pacing  the  floor  suddenly 
brightens  up).  Perhaps  you  can  help  me! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Whether  I  can  or  not  I'll  have  a 
talk  with  Ned  Sawyer.  Though  I  don't  see  what 
harm  he  can  do  you.  You  don't  seem  to  realize 
that  you  are  beyond  the  reach  of  political  enemies. 
Why  the  people  regard  you  as  the  ideal  statesman. 
Your  position  is  unassailable. 

HOPKINS  (speaking  softly).  Edith,  let  me  tell  you 
something.  This  man  Sawyer  has  something  that 
— well  I  might  as  well  tell  you — he  has  some  let 
ters.  They  don't  amount  to  much,  but  if  they 
were  published  they'd  be  mighty  embarrassing. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (deeply  interested).  Letters  you 
wrote  ? 

HOPKINS.  One  of  them  I  wrote.  The  others 
are  copies  of  letters  written  to  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  I  see.  (She  smiles.)  Yours 
is  the  besetting  vice  of  the  man  that  has  the  mis 
fortune  to  write  a  fine  Spencerian  hand. 

HOPKINS.     What  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  The  letter-writing  habit.  You 
used  to  keep  me  busy  burning  them  .  .  .  once 
upon  a  time. 

HOPKINS  (flaring  up,  determination  in  his  face). 
Oh,  I've  got  to  get  them — I  must  get  them. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  57 

MRS.  FOSTER.  If  they  are  so  important  it  would 
seem  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  appoint 
him.  (Meditatively.)  I'm  sure  there  is  a  lot  of 
good  in  Ned  Sawyer.  Why  not  give  him  a  chance  ? 

HOPKINS.  No,  damn  him,  I'll  not  appoint  him. 
I'll  see  him  in  hell  first. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Then  they're  not  so  important. 
(A  pause.) 

HOPKINS  (sinking  into  chair  again  and  thinking 
aloud).  And  even  if  I  appoint  him  he'll  keep  them 
to  coerce  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Won't  give  them  to  you  if  you 
appoint  him? 

HOPKINS.  That's  what  he  says  .  .  .  won't 
trust  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     He'll  trust  me. 
HOPKINS.     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Suppose  you  let  me  deal  with  him. 
Let  me  suggest  to  him  that  I  hold  the  letters. 
(Hopkins  meditates.)  You'll  trust  me  to  hold 
them?  (She  regards  him  eagerly.) 

HOPKINS.  Of  course  I'll  trust  you.  But  how 
can  I  afford  to  appoint  him.  Think  of  what  the 
newspapers  will  say! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Why  think  of  that?  It's  well  to 
remember  that  the  newspapers  of  today  start  the 
kitchen  fires  of  tomorrow.  The  only  question,  it 
seems  to  me  is,  Which  you  are  the  more  afraid  of 
having  published — the  letters  or  the  appointment? 
If  you  wish  I'll  attend  to  Sawyer. 

HOPKINS.  I'm  afraid  you'll  not  be  able  to  do 
anything  with  him. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  There  was  a  time,  Charles,  when 
you  had  great  confidence  in  me.  You  used  to  say 
that  I  was  the  most  tactful  of  women. 


58  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

HOPKINS.     Yes,  yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  That  I  was  the  supreme  strategist 
of  my  sex. 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  I  said  that,  and  I  meant  it.  But 
you  have  done  so  much  for  me,  and  now  .  .  . 
yes,  I'm  something  of  an  ingrate.  Don't  you  think 
so? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (laughing).  An  ingrate?  Why, 
Charles,  ours  was  an  episode  upon  which  nothing 
remains  to  be  said.  I  thought  you  understood.  You 
used  to  tell  me  I  was  a  woman  of  strong  character. 
The  ability  to  forget  is  one  of  the  evidences  of 
strength.  It  is  the  weak  who  muse  over  their 
griefs  when  they  should  be  employing  them  as  the 
material  of  epigrams. 

HOPKINS.  I'm  afraid  that  when  you  know  all — 
when  you — Oh,  pshaw,  I  don't  know,  somehow  I 
feel  I  haven't  been  square  with  you. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  When  I  know  all?  What  do  you 
mean? 

HOPKINS.  I  mean — I  mean  that  some  day — 
some  day  when  you  think  of  all  that  you've  done 
for  me,  perhaps  you'll  feel  something  of  resentment. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Resentment?  Is  there  anything 
to  resent?  I  think  we  have  always  been  perfectly 
frank  with  each  other,  have  we  not? 

HOPKINS.  Perfectly  frank!  .  .  .  Yes,  yes, 
but  I  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to  play  the  game 
through.  Perhaps  some  day  you'll  despise  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Despise  you?  For  realizing  your 
self!  Impossible!  One  must  always  give  the  rein 
to  one's  individuality.  You  know  that  has  always 
been  my  philosophy.  And  I  practiced  it,  too,  else 
how  could  I  have  ever  been  faithless  to  Cyrus. 
Poor  Cyrus  !  He's  so  good ! 

HOPKINS.     Then  you  do  really  forgive  me? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  59 

MRS.  FOSTER.  With  my  whole  heart.  Have  I 
not  always  been  unselfish  in  whatever  concerned 
you? 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  dear,  you  have  hazarded  every 
thing  for  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  now  whatever  the  pangs  our 
separation  may  cause  me,  they  will  be  assuaged  by 
your — by  the  feeling  that  after  all  out  of  evil  has 
come  good.  I  inspired  your  ambition  and  you  are 
justifying  the  only  faith  I  had  that  was  worth 
while,  the  faith  in  your  civic  patriotism.  I'm  not 
altogether  wicked  you  know.  I've  been  a  bad  wife, 
but  I'm  a  good  citizen — don't  you  think? 

HOPKINS.     You  are  a  noble  woman. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  say  that  some  day  I  may 
despise  you.  If  so  it  will  not  be  for  anything  done 
to  me.  All  that  I  ask  is  that  as  Governor  of  the 
State  you  atone  for  us  both.  (A  pause.)  Well, 
now  I  must  help  you. 

HOPKINS.     I'm  afraid  you'll  not  succeed. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     When  is  he  to  be  here? 

HOPKINS.  I  expect  him  any  minute.  (Looks  at 
his  watch.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Then  you  go,  and  leave  me  here. 

HOPKINS  (hesitates).  Very  well,  I'll  go.  When 
shall  I  see  you  again  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Come  to  our  apartments  this 
evening.  There  you  can  tell  me  everything. 

HOPKINS  (hesitates).     I  don't  think  that — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Cyrus  has  to  go  down  to  the  city 
and  Rosalie  has  some  sociological  meeting  to  at 
tend.  I'll  be  alone.  You  must  come.  You  told 
me  you  had  much  to  tell  me. 

HOPKINS  I'll  be  up  about  8  o'clock.  Edith,  there 
never  was  a  woman  in  the  world  like  you.  You've 


60  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

been  my  guardian  angel.     You  have  never  failed. 
And  I— 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  are  a  Governor  who  needs  a 
guardian.  And  I  must  do  some  good  in  the  world. 

(Dolan  enters.) 

HOPKINS.     I'll  not  be  back  till  five,  Larry. 

DOLAN.     All  right,  sir. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  to  make  an  appointment  you 
issue  a  commission,  don't  you? 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Then  I  suppose  if  it's  arranged 
satisfactorily  you'll  have  Mr.  Dolan  make  one  out? 

HOPKINS  (hesitates).     Yes. 

(Dolan  who  is  busy  at  table  looks  up  inquiringly.) 

HOPKINS.  We're  talking  about  Sawyer.  Mrs. 
Foster  is  going  to  have  a  talk  with  him.  (Looks 
around.)  I  think  I  left  my  hat  inside.  (Goes  into 
private  office.) 

DOLAN.     You  know  Mr.  Sawyer — do  you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes. 

DOLAN.  This  is  a  bad  time  for  him  to  be  look 
ing  for  a  job.  This  Lawrence  agitation  is  enough 
to  worry  a  man,  don't  you  think,  hm  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  it  is. 

DOLAN.  Queer  world  this,  hm?  The  other  day 
the  whole  State  was  hammering  Lawrence  and  now 
he  seems  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  martyr.  That's 
the  way  public  opinion  goes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Very  unreliable,  isn't  is,  Mr. 
Dolan? 

DOLAN.  The  trouble  with  the  people  is  that  they 
fly  off  the  handle.  That's  the  trouble  now.  They're 
blaming  the  Administration  for  the  death  of  Judge 
Lawrence.  If  he  had  lived  they'd  have  recalled 
him. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  61 

(Hopkins  returns,  hat  in  hand.  At  the  same 
moment  Sawyer  enters  at  back.  Hopkins  is  startled 
and  embarrassed.) 

SAWYER.    Am  I  late  ?    (He  bozvs  to  Mrs.  Foster.) 

(Dolan  goes  into  his  private  office.) 

HOPKINS.  Well — er — yes,  Ned,  I've  been  wait 
ing  for  you. 

SAWYER.     Sorry.     I  couldn't  get  here  sooner. 

HOPKINS.  I've  just  been  called  away  on  some 
important  business. 

SAWYER.     Shall  I  call  again? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Won't  you  stay  and  have  a  little 
talk  with  me? 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  Ned.  Sit  down  and  have  a  talk 
with  Mrs.  Foster.  She  has  just  been  reminisc 
ing  about  you. 

SAWYER  (to  Mrs.  Foster).  About  me?  (She 
nods  and  smiles.) 

HOPKINS  (looking  at  his  watch  and  appearing  to 
be  in  a  great  hurry).  Yes,  sit  down,  Ned,  and  per 
haps  I'll  see  you  later  ...  if  I  can  get  back. 

(Hopkins  goes  out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I've  been  waiting  for  you,  Ned. 

SAWYER.     Waiting  for  me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes, — it  seems  like  old  times — 
waiting  for  you. 

SAWYER.     Edith ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  Edith !  That's  what  you 
used  to  call  me.  Now  come  here  and  sit  down. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  You  had  an  en 
gagement  with  Governor  Hopkins. 

SAWYER.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling  and  sitting  down).  I'm 
keeping  it  for  him. 


62  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

SAWYER.    You  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Wouldn't  you  prefer  to  talk  to  me  ? 
Come  sit  down.  (Sees  that  he  regards  her  in  aston 
ishment.)  Now  I'm  the  Governor's  agent — full  au 
thority — he  has  told  me  everything. 

SAWYER.     Everything  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  want  an  appointment,  he 
wants  some  letters. 

SAWYER.     So  that  scoundrel — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Calm  yourself,  Ned.  Don't  lose 
your  temper. 

SAWYER.     The  coward! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Oh,  now,  don't  talk  that  way. 

SAWYER.  So,  he  gets  behind  a  woman's  skirts 
to — 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Hush !    Ned ! 

SAWYER.  I'm  sorry,  Edith,  to  find  you  mixing 
yourself  up  in  this  affair — serving  his  purpose.  Oh, 
I'm  sorry  to  see  you — 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Don't  be  sorry,  Ned. 

SAWYER.  You  and  Governor  Hopkins  are  friends, 
warm  friends,  I  believe. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  we  are  friends. 

SAWYER.  And  that  is  why  you  are  taking  a  hand 
in  this  matter? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Not  altogether.  I  would  befriend 
you.  I  have  confidence  in  you,  Ned.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you.  I  believe  you  will  do  right.  I 
want  you  to  trust  me.  He  has  told  me  all. 

SAWYER.     What  has  he  told  you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  He  has  told  me  about  the  letters — 
that— 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  63 

SAWYER.     Yes — yes — what  did  he  tell  you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  That  they  concern  him  and  he 
wants  them,  and  that  you  want  an  appointment  to 
the  bench. 

SAWYER.     Did  he  tell  you  I  stole  them? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (astounded).     You  stole  them? 

SAWYER.  Yes,  from  Luke  Trask.  Did  he  tell 
you  that? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Luke  Trask! 

SAWYER.     Not  a  nice  thing  to  do,  was  it? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  stole  them? 

SAWYER.  Yes — stole  them.  The  stain  of  the 
prison,  you  know,  is  on  my  soul.  Did  he  ever  tell 
you  why  I  went  to  prison? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (bewildered).  You — stole — from 
Trask !  By  whom  were  they  written  ? — not  by — 

SAWYER  (laughing  bitterly).  Yes,  he  wrote  them. 
Your  friend  Governor  Hopkins — our  pure  unadul 
terated  civic  patriot.  (Mrs.  Foster  is  transfixed. 
She  is  about  to  speak,  but  stares  into  space.)  Did 
he  tell  you  that  I  was  his  dupe,  that  I  saved  him 
from  the  penitentiary?  (A  pause.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (slowly  coming  to  her  senses. 
Shakes  her  head.)  No,  he  never  told  me  that. 

SAWYER.     I  thought  not. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     So,  that's  how  it  was ! 

SAWYER.  Edith,  you  believe  me,  don't  you? 
(He  takes  her  hand.)  You  had  faith  in  me  once. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  believe  you,  Ned.  Rest  assured 
of  that.  But  tell  me,  what  about  these  letters — 
what — do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  and  Trask  have 
been  in  correspondence? 


64  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

SAWYER.  That's  exactly  what  I  mean  to  say. 
And  I've  got  the  proof. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No  wonder  he's  worried !  What  is 
the  correspondence  about? 

SAWYER.  You  know  that  Judge  Lawrence  com 
mitted  suicide. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes. 

SAWYER.  Do  you  know  that  Trask  inspired  the 
recall,  and  that  Hopkins  put  the  State  machine  into 
the  fight  at  Trask's  request? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Do  you  mean — 

SAWYER.  I  mean  that  Trask  wanted  to  get 
Lawrence  off  the  bench,  and  that  Hopkins  played 
into  Trask's  hands. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  why  did  he  do  that?  He 
didn't  have  to  do  that. 

SAWYER.  Because  he  wanted  to  avert  opposition 
to  his  candidacy  for  the  Senate. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (rising,  in  a  state  of  nervous  en 
thusiasm)  .  And  you  have  the  letters  to  prove  that  ? 

SAWYER.  Yes,  I  have  the  letters.  They  may  not 
prove  all  I  say,  but  they'll  prove  enough.  They'll 
at  least  prove  that  Hopkins  was  Trask's  tool. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (momentarily  in  deep  thought.  She 
sits  down  looking  disappointed.  Speaks  slowly). 
But  you  must  use  them  to  purchase  your  appoint 
ment. 

SAWYER  (laughs  ironically).  Do  you  think  he 
would  appoint  me  to  the  bench  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     He  has  virtually  agreed  to  do  so. 

SAWYER  (shaking  his  head).  No;  he'll  not  do 
it.  I  don't  expect  him  to  do  it.  I  never  expected 
him  to  do  it. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  65 

MRS.  FOSTER  (astonished).     No? 

SAWYER.  I  just  wanted  to  pass  a  tough  job  up 
to  him. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (gloomily).  There  isn't  anything 
he  wouldn't  give  you  for  those  letters. 

SAWYER.  But  you  don't  think  he'd  hesitate  to 
double-cross  me,  do  you? — get  hold  of  the  letters 
and  then  laugh  at  me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  suppose  he  would  if  he  could. 
But  the  bargain  he  has  agreed  to  is  that  I  shall  hold 
them. 

SAWYER.     But  I  want  him  to  get  them. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  can't  understand  you  at  all.  You 
want  the  judgeship,  don't  you? 

SAWYER.  No;  that  wouldn't  do  me  much  good. 
I'd  have  to  run  in  less  than  a  year,  at  the  end  of  the 
unexpired  term,  and  I'd  be  beaten.  Oh,  it  would 
help  to  rehabilitate  me,  of  course,  but  I  don't  care 
much  for  that  now.  Nor  would  I  care  to  be  a 
judge  if  I  had  to  blackmail  my  way  to  the  bench. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (her  curiosity  becoming  intense). 
Then  what  is  it  you  want  from  him? 

SAWYER.  I  want  him  to  go  the  distance ;  to  prove 
himself  to  be  just  what  I'm  sure  he  is,  and  then  I'll 
feel  that  I'm  more  than  justified  in  using  the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  don't  understand. 

SAWYER.     I'm  going  to  give  him  the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh !  don't  do  that !  Give  them  to 
me. 

SAWYER.     Will  you  give  them  to  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No,  why  should  I  do  that? 

SAWYER.     I  want  you  to.     (She  looks  in  amaze- 


66  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

went.  He  laughs,  then  looks  around.)  Edith,  you 
told  me  I  could  trust  you? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes — yes. 

SAWYER.  Then  let  him  have  the  letters.  Here 
they  are.  (Takes  a  small  package  out  of  his  pocket 
and  hands  them  to  her.  She  grasps  them  eagerly. 
He  smiles.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  why  should  I  give  them  to 
him? 

SAWYER  (much  amused  at  her  bewilderment). 
Just  to  give  him  a  chance  to  throw  me  down. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Why  that's  a  stupid  thing  to  do. 

SAWYER  (laughing).  Not  so  stupid  as  it  seems. 
Edith,  I'll  tell  you  something  just  to  show  you  I 
have  confidence  in  you.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  a  photographic  copy  of  a  document  is  for  cer 
tain  purposes  as  good  as  the  original?  (A  pause.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (her  face  lighting  up  with  the  dawn 
of  perception).  You  have — 

SAWYER.  I  have  photographic  copies  of  those 
letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     How  clever! 

SAWYER.  Now  you  see  it's  only  fair  to  him  to 
let  him  have  the  letters  in  consideration  of  his 
promise  to  appoint  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  see. 

(Dolan  returns.) 

DOLAN  (goes  to  table).  I  beg  your  pardon, 
there's  a  paper  here  I  must  get. 

SAWYER.     I'll  be  going. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Come  to  the  hotel  tomorrow  morn 
ing — early.  (Sawyer  nods  and  goes  out.  Mrs. 
Foster,  in  a  tense  state  of  emotion,  sits  down.) 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  67 

DOLAN.  Are  you  going  to  wait  for  the  Gov 
ernor  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No,  I'll  be  going  in  a  moment. 
(She  puts  letters  in  purse.)  By  the  way,  Mr.  Dolan, 
tell  the  Governor'to  have  the  commission  made  out. 

DOLAN  (surprised).     Sawyer's? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes. 

(CURTAIN) 


ACT  III 

The  scene  is  Mrs.  Foster's  boudoir  in  the  Capitol 
Hotel.  At  the  back  on  the  right  side  is  an  arched 
doorway  opening  through  folding  doors  into  a  bed 
room.  A  bed  and  a  bureau  may  be  seen.  In  front 
of  the  doors  is  hung  a  portiere,  drazvn  aside.  At 
the  back  on  the  left  side  is  an  arched  bow  window 
opening  on  to  a  small  balcony.  In  front  hangs  a 
portiere  drazvn  aside.  It  is  a  moonlight  night,  and 
one  can  see  the  balcony  clearly.  In  front  a  door 
opens  into  the  boudoir  from  a  hall-way  on  the  left. 
The  room  is  furnished  after  the  style  of  a  first- class 
hotel  in  a  State  capital  having  a  population  of  about 
forty  thousand.  In  the  right  wall  is  a  fireplace,  but 
there  is  no  fire  burning.  On  the  mantel  a  large 
clock  is  ticking.  There  is  a  dressing  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room.  Just  back  of  it  to  the  right  is 
a  large  sofa  piled  high  with  colored  pillows.  There 
is  a  book  on  the  sofa.  Everything  is  subdued  and 
faded  in  tone. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Mrs.  Foster  in  a  beauti 
ful  evening  gown  is  seated  at  the  dressing  table. 
She  is  devoting  herself  to  the  finishing  touches,  using 
a  pencil  for  her  lashes,  rouge  for  her  lips,  and  occa 
sionally  looking  at  herself  in  a  hand  mirror.  Her 
maid  Lucy,  a  smart  looking  girl  of  about  twenty-two 
is  standing  near  by  rapt  in  admiration. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Now,  Lucy,  my  necklace. 


70  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

(Lucy  goes  into  bedroom,  finds  the  necklace  on 
the  bureau  and  returns.) 

(A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door  followed  by  Foster. 
Mrs.  Foster  rises  and  stares  in  astonishment.  Lucy 
goes  into  bedroom.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     What's  the  matter? 
FOSTER.     Nothing,  my  dear. 
MRS.  FOSTER.     I  thought  you  had  gone! 
FOSTER    (smiling).     I   started,  but  when   I   got 
downstairs  I  changed  my  mind. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     How  silly! 

FOSTER.  Do  you  want  me  to  miss  the  mass- 
meeting,  the  big  jollification?  Hopkins  would  never 
forgive  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  you've  got  an  engagement. 
What  will  they  think? 

FOSTER.     I  can  telephone  to  the  city  and — 

MRS.  FOSTER  (looking  at  the  clock).  Oh,  that 
will  never  do.  Miss  so  important  an  engagement 
with  men  who  have  come  all  the  way  from  New 
York  to  discuss  a  business  matter  with  you? 

FOSTER.     My  dear — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Just  to  attend  a  little  political 
jollification. 

FOSTER.  I  can  have  it  postponed  till  tomorrow 
morning. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (reproachfully).  But,  my  dear,  are 
you  going  to  leave  me  alone  tomorrow? 

FOSTER  (kissing  her  on  the  cheek).  Would  you 
rather  have  me  go  tonight! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'd  rather  have  it  over  with  it,  so 
that  you  can  stay  here  for  a  while  and  not  have 
business  on  your  mind.  (Looks  at  clock.)  You 
haven't  more  than  ten  minutes  to  get  the  train. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  71 

FOSTER.  That's  more  time  than  I  need.  You 
really  think  I  ought  to  go,  then. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Most  assuredly  I  do — so  that  you 
can  be  with  us  tomorrow,  dear. 

FOSTER.     What  will  the  Governor  say? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Now,  don't  worry  about  him. 

FOSTER.  Very  well,  sweetheart,  I'll  go.  (He 
kisses  her.).  Good  night.  I  hate  like  hell  to  go. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Good  night. 

(He  goes  out.  Mrs.  Foster  sits  doivn  like  one 
who  has  passed  through  a  great  crisis.  She  takes 
up  necklace  that  has  been  lying  on  the  table.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Come,  Lucy.  (She  hands  the 
necklace  to  Lucy  who  puts  it  on  Mrs.  Foster.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  So  Rosalie  has  made  a  politician 
of  you.  What  day  was  it  you  registered? 

LUCY.     Last  Tuesday,  Mrs.  Foster. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (admiring  the  necklace).  And  you 
never  told  me!  Nobody  has  been  telling  me  any 
thing  of  late.  Did  Rosalie  take  you  to  the  Reg 
istrar's  ? 

LUCY.     Oh!  yes,  Mrs.  Foster. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  now  what  great  cause  have 
you  espoused? 

LUCY.     Hm  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Haven't  you  discovered  something 
wrong  with  the  government,  something  that  ought 
to  be  repaired? 

LUCY  (mystified,  shakes  her  head).  The  govern 
ment?  I  don't  know  anything  about  that. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Strange!  (A  pause.)  Are  my 
lips  too  red? 

LUCY.     They're  just  perfect. 


72  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  you  ought  to  take  up  some 
problem  of  government,  Lucy,  and  solve  it. 

LUCY  (titters).     I'm  only  going  to  vote,  that's  all. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Ah ;  but  that  isn't  enough.  How 
ever  you'll  learn.  This  is  the  day  of  quick  culture. 
Before  long  you  will  have  familiarized  yourself  with 
the  mothers'  pension  question.  I'll  not  be  surprised 
to  find  you  lecturing  at  some  woman's  club  on  the 
evils  of  white  slavery  and  the  vast  importance  of 
raising  the  age  of  consent. 

(Lucy  smiles  incredulously.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (holding  a  hand  mirror  off  at  arm's 
length  and  looking  intently  at  her  reflection).  Lucy, 
am  I  growing  old? 

LUCY.  Oh,  Mrs.  Foster !  You  look  like  a  young 
girl. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You're  a  flatterer,  Lucy.  I'm 
taking  on  flesh. 

LUCY.  Your  figure  is  just  as  slender  as  Miss 
Rosalie's. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  my  face — aren't  there  symp 
toms  of  a  double  chin? 

LUCY.  No,  Mrs.  Foster ;  you're  beautiful.  Every 
body  says  you  are. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Everybody,  Lucy?  Too  bad!  I 
have  no  faith  in  everybody's  judgment.  Everybody 
is  the  crowd.  The  crowd  knows  nothing  of  beauty. 
It  loves  ugliness  and  vulgarity.  But,  Lucy,  I  must 
look  more  beautiful  than  ever  tonight.  So  please 
do  something  with  my  hair.  (Lucy  proceeds  to 
give  Mrs.  Foster's  hair  a  few  finishing  touches. 
A  knock  is  heard,  and  Miss  Colton's  voice  is  heard.) 

Miss  COLTON.     May  I  come  in? 

MRS.  FOSTER.    Come. 

(Enter  Miss  Colton.) 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  73 

Miss  COLTON.  I  forgot  my  book.  (She  goes  to 
sofa  and  gets  it.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (who  is  still  having  her  hair  ar 
ranged).  Going  to  read? 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes;  I  haven't  anything  else  to 
do. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Aren't  you  going  to  the  meeting? 

Miss  COLTON.  No.  I'm  afraid  if  I  do  I  might 
miss  the  big  pow-wow. 

MRS.  FOSTER.    Oh ! 

Miss  COLTON.  Is  that  what  you  are  fixing  up 
for? 

MRS.  FOSTER.    Yes. 

Miss  COLTON.  When  are  you  going  to  deliver 
my  pre-nuptial  sermon? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Now  don't  be  impatient,  dear. 
There's  plenty  of  time  for  that.  Get  my  bracelet, 
Lucy. 

(Miss  Colton  puts  an  arm  around  Mrs.  Foster 
coaxingly.) 

Miss  COLTON.     Is  it  to  be  very  solemn? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Am  I  ever  very  solemn? 

Miss  COLTON.     Sometimes  you  are. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     How  stupid  of  me ! 

Miss  COLTON.  When  you  came  home  this  after 
noon  and  began  questioning  me  about  my  engage 
ment  you  were  very,  very  solemn. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Love  is  a  very  solemn  thing  to 
talk  about. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  you  haven't  looked  at  all 
cheerful  since. 

(Lucy  returns  from  bedroom  with  bracelet.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I've  had  a  slight  headache,  dear. 
I  had  to  take  a  powder  for  it.  So  (looking  at  the 


74  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

clock)  I  don't  wish  to  do  any  more  talking  than  I 
have  to  at  present. 

Miss  COLTON.     Oh,  I'm  sorry. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'll  be  better  soon.  (Miss  Cotton 
goes  to  door.)  Lucy  tells  me  you  have  been  mak 
ing  a  politician  of  her. 

Miss  COLTON  (laughing).  I'm  going  to  make  a 
Progressive  out  of  her.  She  has  promised  to  vote 
for  Mr.  Hopkins  for  United  States  Senator. 
Haven't  you,  Lucy? 

LUCY.     Yes,  Miss  Rosalie. 

(Exit  Miss  Cotton.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You'll  see  the  Governor  tonight, 
Lucy. 

LUCY.     The  Governor? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (looks  at  clock).  Yes,  I  expect  him 
shortly. 

(Lucy  draws  portiere  over  bedroom  door.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  By  the  way,  Lucy.  Do  you  think 
they  are  very  much  in  love — Rosalie  and  the  Gov 
ernor  ? 

LUCY  (laughs).     I  suppose  so,  Mrs.  Foster. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  only  suppose? 

LUCY.  I  never  knew  they  were  going  to  be  mar 
ried  till  I  heard  you  talking  to  her  this  afternoon 
about  the  engagement. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'm  afraid  you're  not  very  ob 
serving,  Lucy. 

LUCY.  He  never  came  to  see  her.  It  was  always 
to  see — (a  pause.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiles).  Me.  You  did  observe 
that.  (A  knock  is  heard.)  There  he  is  now.  (Mrs. 
Foster  quickly  takes  up  position  reclining  among 
the  pillows  on  the  sofa.)  Go  to  the  door,  Lucy. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  75 

(Lucy  opens  the  door,  admits  Governor  Hopkins, 
and  goes  out.) 

HOPKINS  (burning  with  anxiety  his  eyes  are 
bulging  with  expectancy).  You  are  alone? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Quite  aloae. 

HOPKINS  (going  to  her  side).    Well — what  news? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  crisis  is  passed. 

HOPKINS.     You  have  the  letters? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiles  and  nods).     I  have  them. 

HOPKINS.  Edith,  my  darling!  (Seizes  her  in 
his  arms  and  kisses  her  passionately.)  Oh,  what  a 
load  you  have  taken  off  my  mind!  How  can  I 
ever — where  are  they?  Let  me  see  them. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  What  an  unromantic  hurry  you 
are  in!  My  dear  Charles,  the  letters  are  perfectly 
safe.  Come,  sit  down  and  talk  to  me.  Just  think! 
We  have  not  been  alone  for  weeks.  And  you  have 
so  much  to  say  to  me.  Let  us  talk  over  our  affairs. 
Tell  me  what  these  miserable,  vulgar  gossips  have 
been  saying. 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  yes,  Edith,  I'll  tell  you  all,  but 
the  letters,  I  can't  sit  down  till  I  see  them. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  ought  to  take  something  for 
your  nerves. 

HOPKINS  (laughing).  I'll  take  the  letters. 
They'll  soothe  me  like  bromide. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Oh,  very  well. 

(She  rises,  goes  toward  bedroom,  parts  the  por 
tiere,  and  as  she  does  so  he  approaches  her  and  puts 
his  arms  around  her.  She  turns  her  face  to  him 
and  he  kisses  her.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Aren't  you  afraid  your  conscience 
will  sting  you? 

HOPKINS.  You  cannot  imagine,  Edith,  how  full 
of  joy  I  am.  This  afternoon  I  felt  that  the  irre- 


76  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

trievable  had  happened.  I  came  to  you  tonight  full 
of  the  pessimism  of  despair,  almost  certain  that  you 
had  failed.  I  was  utterly  hopeless.  And  now — 
well,  now  I  am  perfectly  happy.  The  grinding 
anxiety  is  over. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'm  glad  to  know  your  spirits  have 
ceased  to  droop.  After  tonight,  I  suppose, — after 
tonight,  you  will  be  able  to  look  the  dear  people 
straight  in  the  eye  for  the  first  time.  (He  starts.) 
Is  it  not  so? 

HOPKINS.  Now  why  do  you  say  that?  Just  to 
taunt  me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  no,  Charles.  You  misunder 
stand. 

HOPKINS.     Then  what  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  mean  that  tonight  you  are  to 
tell  me  all,  and  that  then  ...  we  part. 

HOPKINS.  Oh.  I  thought  you  were  alluding  to 
the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  no.  I  was  only  thinking  that 
with  the  letters  off  your  mind  and  me  off  your 
conscience,  you  will  feel  like  a  liberated  soul. 

HOPKINS.     Don't  mock  me,  Edith. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'm  not  mocking  you.  How  sen 
sitive  you  are! 

HOPKINS.     Have  you  read  the  letters? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  never  read  other  people's  letters. 
I  know  nothing  about  them  except  what  Ned  Sawyer 
told  me.  I  know  it's  on  account  of  Trask  that  you 
were  so  much  alarmed. 

HOPKINS.     I  suppose  you  were  shocked. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No.     Only  astonished. 

HOPKINS.  Well,  I'll  explain  the  whole  matter 
to  you. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  was  sure  you  would. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  77 

HOPKINS.  There  wasn't  anything  wrong,  but  of 
course  it  would  be  hard  to  make  the  public  under 
stand  how  I  came  to  be  in  correspondence  with 
Trask. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  it  certainly  would. 

HOPKINS.  You  see,  I've  whipped  Trask  into 
line,  and  he  realizes  now  that  the  old  system  was 
bad.  He  is  as  zealous  for  reform  as  the  next  man. 
And  I'll  have  his  support  for  the  Senate. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Ah.  You  are  a  master  of  the  art 
of  political  strategy.  You  have  snatched  a  brand 
from  the  burning,  and  you  will  use  it  to  light  you 
on  your  way.  That's  what  I  call  genius. 

HOPKINS.  Come,  Edith,  don't  be  jesting.  Let 
me  have  the  letters.  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  to  be  sure;  I  was  forgetting 
about  them.  (Takes  a  step  toward  bedroom.  Sud 
denly  turns.)  How  forgetful ! 

HOPKINS.     What's  happened? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  the 
top  drawer  of  the  bureau  is  locked — and  Lucy  has 
the  key. 

HOPKINS.     Where  is  she? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     She'll  be  back  presently. 

HOPKINS.     Can't  you  ring  for  her? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  sent  her  on  an  errand.  Now 
don't  be  so  impatient.  She'll  be  back  in  a  few 
moments. 

HOPKINS.  I  hope  she  gets  back  before  the  meet 
ing  starts. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Don't  worry  about  that.  All  your 
worries  will  soon  be  over.  .  .  .  Charles,  this 
may  be  our  last — 

HOPKINS.  Don't  say  that,  Edith.  I  don't  want 
to  think  that.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  look  so  beautiful 


78  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

tonight!  (He  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her.) 
How  can  I  give  you  up!  You  were  the  one  thing 
in  this  world  that  I  desired — that  I  hoped  some  day 
to  call  my  own. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  you  used  to  say  you  would 
wait  if  it  took  till  doomsday. 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  yes,  and  I  meant  it  too.  Oh,  if  I 
had  not — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Become  the  people's  friend — and 
if  Cyrus  wasn't  in  such  good  health — but  as  I've 
told  you  that's  all  nonsense — self-delusion.  There 
is  something  you  wish  to  say  to  me  tonight  ? 

HOPKINS.  Something  to  say  to  you?  About 
what  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  About  .  .  .  well  about  our 
selves.  You  said  yesterday  there  was  a  lot  you  had 
to  tell  me. 

HOPKINS.  Did  I?  (Looks  at  his  watch.)  I 
wish  that  girl  would  come. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  this  afternoon  you  made  a 
remark  that  has  since  made  me  think  you  had  some 
thing  very  important  to  say. 

HOPKINS.     What  was  that? 

MRS  FOSTER.  That  some  day  I  might  despise 
you. 

HOPKINS.     Did  I  say  that? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes.  So  absurd!  But  of  course 
,  .  .  you  have  something  to  say.  You  had  it  on 
your  mind  today. 

HOPKINS.  But,  Edith,  my  mind  has  been  in  such 
a  whirl. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  I  know. 

HOPKINS.  Just  think  of  it ! !  I  have  been  at  the 
mercy  of  a  blackmailer! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes.     I  can  appreciate  your  state 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  79 

of  mind.  And  I  can  excuse  you,  too,  for  not  being 
as  frank  with  me  as  you  might  have  been  (Hopkins 
becomes  apprehensive.)  Ah,  Charles,  I  know  just 
how  you  have  been  feeling.  .  .  .  You  have 
something  to  say  to  me,  haven't  you? 

HOPKINS.     Y-es — I  have. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Something  about — Rosalie. 

HOPKINS  (struggling  to  maintain  his  composure). 
She  has  told  you!  I  asked  her  to  let  me  tell  you 
first. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Did  you  ?  Well  she  didn't  tell  me 
till  I  asked  her. 

HOPKINS.     Edith,  I  intended  to  tell  you  tonight. 

MRS.  FOSTER.    You  did? 

HOPKINS.  Honestly  I  did,  Edith.  Rosalie  will 
tell  you  that  I  promised  to  do  so  before  the  end  of 
the  week.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Edith. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Angry  with  you !  I'm  not  angry. 
I'm  glad  to  know  you  are  not  going  to  repent  your 
past  folly  in  sack-cloth  and  ashes.  But  now,  tell 
me,  wasn't  it  when  you  began  to  admire  Rosalie  that 
you  realized  how  wrong  it  was  to  appear  before  the 
people  in  a  false  light? 

HOPKINS.  No,  Edith,  that  wasn't  it.  I've  told 
you  the  truth.  There  has  been  a  lot  of  gossip. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  that  frightened  you!  How 
weak  you  are !  Everybody  who  amounts  to  any 
thing  occasions  gossip,  which  is  only  another  name 
for  evil-speaking. 

HOPKINS  (confused).  Edith,  I  know  I  haven't 
played  a  manly  part.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  ut 
terly  ashamed  of  my  weakness.  I  should  have  told 
you  long  ago.  But  I  haven't  lied  to  you.  It's  just 
as  I  told  you.  There  has  been  gossip.  (Paces  up 
and  down.)  It  seems  as  if  everything  is  conspiring 
against  me.  Even  in  politics  appearances  are 


80  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

enough  to  condemn  me.     I've  just  begun  to  realize 
what  retribution  means. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  Charles, 
don't  reproach  yourself.  Only  I  feel  that  if  you 
were  really  chivalrous  you'd  have  allowed  me  to 
break  the  spell. 

HOPKINS.  I  know  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
Edith.  It  was  cowardly  not  to  have  done  so. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  you  should 
have  told  me.  All  I  wanted  was  a  warning. 
(Laughs.)  You  see  it's  a  terrible  blow  to  a  woman's 
ego  not  to  be  permitted  to  avail  herself  of  her  lines 
of  retreat.  When  the  woman  glides  out  gracefully 
no  harm  is  done,  but  when  the  man  abruptly  throws 
up  the  game  it's  a  tragedy.  You  see  I  am  more 
philosophical  than  sentimental. 

HOPKINS.     And  you  forgive  me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  My  dear  Charles,  you  are  taking 
it  all  too  seriously,  and  from  the  wrong  viewpoint. 
A  woman  is  always  responsible  for  her  own  failures. 
You  have  done  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  for. 
You  have  merely  chastened  my  ego. 

HOPKINS.  Edith,  you  are  sure  you  don't  hate 
me? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Hate  you?    How  absurd! 

HOPKINS.  No,  it's  not  absurd.  I  ought  to  be 
overwhelmed  with  remorse. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Believe  me,  Charles,  our  past  floats 
in  a  mist  of  obscurity.  I  know  there  are  some 
women  who  are  given  to  grieving  over  a  romance 
that  is  dead,  but  it  is  not  my  nature  to  do  so.  Why 
should  I  expect  to  be  always  irresistible?  Why 
should  I  expect  you  to  refuse  the  life  that  has  come 
to  you  with  its  joys,  its  seductions  and  its  honorable 
duties!  Now  don't  worry  about  me.  I  know  that 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  81 

one  might  as  well  try  to  gather  the  breath  of  the 
budding  rose  as  to  direct  the  course  of  love. 

HOPKINS.  Then  you  really  do  forgive  me — you 
treasure  up  no — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  hope  you  do  not  think  I'm  re 
vengeful. 

HOPKINS.     Oh,  no,  I — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  After  tonight  I  intend  to  turn  to 
religion. 

HOPKINS.     To  religion? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (with  deep  sincerity).  Yes,  after 
tonight.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  all  earthly 
joy  is  mixed  with  anguish  and  discontent.  I  am 
told  God  never  rejects  those  who  force  their  way 
to  him — that  there  are  no  wounds  which  religion 
cannot  heal.  We  shall  part  on  excellent  terms,  I 
hope. 

(A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door.) 

HOPKINS  (startled).     Somebody  at  the  door! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  suppose  it's  Lucy. 

HOPKINS.     Get  the  key  from  her. 

Miss  COLTON.     May  I  come  in? 

HOPKINS  (in  a  panic).     Rosalie! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Hush!  (To  Rosalie.)  In  a 
moment,  dear. 

HOPKINS  (looking  for  a  place  to  escape).  What 
shall  I  do? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (pointing  to  the  windozvs).  On 
the  balcony,  quick!  (As  he  goes.)  I'll  get  rid  of 
her  as  soon  as  possible. 

(When  Hopkins  goes  out  it  is  no  longer  moon 
light.  The  balcony  is  in  darkness.  Mrs.  Foster 
closes  the  windows  and  draws  the  portiere.  Then 
she  returns  to  center  of  room.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.    Come. 


82  A    FRIEND   OF    THE    PEOPLE 

(Miss  Colton  enters.) 

Miss  COLTON.  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  you  had 
gone  to  bed. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  It's  too  early  for  bed.  Besides 
the  town  band  hasn't  begun  to  play  the  serenade  yet. 

Miss  COLTON.     What  about  the  sermon? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You're  just  in  time  for  that. 

Miss  COLTON.  So  the  news  was  a  suprise  to  you ! 
(She  sits  on  the  sofa,  Mrs.  Foster  on  a  chair.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  you  sly  rogue.  You  kept 
your  secret  well. 

Miss  COLTON.  But  there  was  nothing  to  tell, 
except — well,  I  suppose  we  are  sort  of  engaged. 
But  it  wasn't  settled.  Both  of  us  might  change  our 
minds. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Oh,  that's  it. 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes,  I  think  that's  how  it  is.  Oh, 
he  was  very  much  in  earnest,  but  it  was  all  kind 
of  prospective. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Then  you  are  not  very  much  in 
love,  are  you? 

Miss  COLTON  (meditates  and  then  laughs  girl 
ishly).  How  am  I  to  know  when  it's  the  first  time. 

MRS,  FOSTER.  One  doesn't  have  to  be  told  that. 
Rosalie,  you're  not  in  love  at  all. 

Miss  COLTON  flier  eyes  opened  widej.  How  do 
you  know? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  When  a  young  girl  is  in  love  the 
depth  of  it  is  not  a  matter  of  guesswork.  Some 
times  we  confound  love  with  admiration.  You  ad 
mire  Governor  Hopkins,  don't  you! 

Miss  COLTON  (clasping  her  hands  ecstatically). 
Oh !  yes,  I  do  admire  him ! 


A   FRIEND  OF   THE   PEOPLE  83 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling).  Not  a  bit  of  doubt  of 
that,  I  see. 

Miss  COLTON  (rapturously).  I  think  he's  the 
ideal  Governor. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  see. 

Miss  COLTON.  He's  so  good!  And  he's  going 
to  do  big  things  for  the  people.  He  has  done  big 
things  for  the  people.  That's  why  I — why  I  admire 
him. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  see.  You're  a  great  little 
patriot,  Rosalie  dear — an  intense  patriot.  Patriot 
ism  like  yours  seems  to  justify  woman  suffrage. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  you  admire  Governor  Hop 
kins  too,  don't  you  Aunt  Edith? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (ignoring  the  question).  I  didn't 
know  you  took  politics  so  seriously. 

Miss  COLTON.  Didn't  you  know  I  went  to  all 
the  campaign  meetings? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  I  knew  that.  And  so 
Charles — Governor  Hopkins  is  your  ideal  statesman. 

Miss  COLTON.  I  think  he's  everybody's.  He's 
yours,  isn't  he?  You  used  to  tell  me  what  a  great 
man  he  was.  And  Uncle  Cyrus  thinks  the  world 
of  him  too.  And  he's  so  glad  that  we  are — well,  I 
suppose  you  would  call  it  engaged ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  he  is  glad. 

Miss  COLTON.  And  aren't  you?  Aunt  Edith! 
Don't  you  wish  me  to  marry  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  wish  that  before  marrying  him 
you  should  know  more  about  him,  Rosalie.  And 
I'm  going  to  have  you  know  more  about  him. 

Miss  COLTON  (rising  and  putting  an  arm  around 
Mrs.  Foster).  You  have  something  to  tell  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     There's  much  I  want  you  to  know. 

Miss    COLTON    (eagerly).     Oh,    tell    me,    Aunt 


84  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

Edith.     What   is   it?     Have    I    done   wrong?     Is 
there — 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Don't  excite  yourself,  dear. 
Miss  COLTON.     You  have  given  me  such  a  shock ! 

MRS.  FOSTER  (rises).  I  don't  mean  to  shock  you, 
but  I  may  shatter  an  illusion.  You  are  a  sensible 
girl,  but  the  most  sensible  of  girls  are  deceived  at 
times. 

Miss  COLTON.     What  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Perhaps,  my  dear,  if  you  knew 
Governor  Hopkins  better  you  wouldn't  admire  him 
so  much.  I  fancy,  Rosalie,  that  you've  been  car 
ried  away  by  your  political  enthusiasm. 

Miss  COLTON  (her  voice  faltering;  she  is  dis 
mayed  but  affects  composure).  What  a  strange 
idea! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  He's  not  a  romance  to  you — only 
a  bronze  figure.  Would  it  make  you  sad  to  find 
out  that  it  wasn't  bronze  at  all?  (Miss  Colton 
starts.)  Well  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  break  your 
heart. 

Miss  COLTON.  Oh,  I  don't — tell  me,  what  do  you 
mean?  Are  you  in  earnest? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Now,  Rosalie,  I  want  you  to  step 
in  there  (pointing  to  the  bedroom)  and  remain  per 
fectly  quiet  for  a  few  minutes. 

Miss  COLTON.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Aunt 
Edith? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  There's  nothing  to  be  nervous 
about.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  little  surprise — 
not  a  pleasant  one,  but  it's  for  your  good.  (Miss 
Colton  is  transfixed.)  Listen,  Rosalie :  Governor 
Hopkins  is  out  there  on  the  balcony  waiting  for  you 
to  leave  this  room. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  85 

Miss  COLTON  (pop-eyed  with  amazement). 
Wha-at  ?  .  .  .  Waiting — waiting  for  me  to  go  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  Rosalie. 

Miss  COLTON.     Out  there? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  Rosalie,  he's  out  there  and 
he'll  be  in  here  presently.  He  won't  go  till  you 
leave. 

Miss  COLTON  (going  to  door  at  right).  Then  I'll 
go- 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Don't  be  foolish. 

Miss  COLTON.     But  I  don't  wish  to  hide. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  don't  ask  you  to.  That's  what 
he's  doing.  Come,  I  want  you  to  wait  till  he  goes. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  (Miss  Colton 
walks  like  one  hypnotised  into  the  bedroom.  Mrs. 
Foster  leaves  doors  open,  draws  portiere  and  then 
goes  to  window  and  lets  Governor  Hopkins  in.) 

HOPKINS.     Gone? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes. 

HOPKINS.     Damned  close  shave. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  her  any 
sooner. 

HOPKINS.  If  the  balcony  wasn't  so  high  I'd  have 
jumped. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You'd  have  broken  your  neck. 

HOPKINS.  I'd  rather  do  that  than  let  Rosalie 
know. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Then  you  do  love  her! 

HOPKINS  (ignoring  the  observation).  Edith, 
please  don't  keep  me  in  suspense  any  longer. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Would  you  have  gone  without  the 
letters  ? 

HOPKINS.     I  was  so  excited  I  forgot  about  them. 


86  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

MRS.  FOSTER  (reclining  on  sofa).  How  lucky  you 
are  to  get  such  a  lovely  girl  for  a  wife! 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     A  rich  girl,  too. 

HOPKINS  (looking  at  his  watch).  Great  heavens, 
Edith !  Isn't  that  maid  of  yours  ever  coming  back  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Oh,  don't  be  so  impatient. 

HOPKINS.  But  I've  got  to  go.  There's  going 
to  be  a  mass-meeting  in  front  of  the  hotel  in  a  little 
while. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  She'll  be  here  in  a  moment.  (Re 
clines  on  the  sofa.)  I  told  Rosalie  to  find  her  and 
send  her  in. 

HOPKINS.     Oh. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Just  before  you  came  in  tonight 
I  was  thinking  of  our  trip  to  the  mountains.  We 
arrived  at  the  old  inn  just  a  year  ago  today. 

HOPKINS.     Was  it  a  year  ago? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes.  ...  I  shall  never  for 
get  that  moonlight  night.  ...  It  was  a  year 
ago  tonight. 

HOPKINS.     A  year  ago!     (He  rises.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  When  Cyrus  and  Rosalie  thought 
we  were  lost  in  the  woods. 

HOPKINS  (bending  over  her  and  kissing  her). 
You  are  ravishingly  beautiful  tonight.  (He  starts 
as  though  he  heard  a  sound.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  The  window  is  open,  and  the  cur 
tains  are  blowing.  Let's  talk  about  Rosalie. 

HOPKINS.     About  Rosalie? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  was  just  thinking — what  an 
idealist  she  is. 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Wouldn't  she  be  shocked  if  she 
knew? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  87 

HOPKINS.     If  she  knew? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  about — Trask. 

HOPKINS.     Oh.     Yes,  I  suppose  she  would. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Especially  if  she  knew  that  as  a 
member  of  the  League  of  Justice  she  had  been 
working  in  his  interest. 

HOPKINS  (startled).  I  don't  understand  what 
you  mean. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  I  forgot.  I  didn't  mention, 
did  I,  that  Sawyer  told  me  the  letters  were  about 
Judge  Lawrence? 

HOPKINS.     He  told  you — ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  That  it  was  Trask  who  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  Lawrence,  and  that  he  really  inspired 
the  recall  movement. 

HOPKINS.     Well  that  isn't  exactly  true. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No? 

HOPKINS.     No. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     How  much  of  it  is  true? 

HOPKINS.  Now,  Edith,  I  haven't  time  to  go  into 
that  whole  matter  with  you  tonight.  (Looks  at  his 
watch  again.)  I  wish  you'd  ring  for  that  girl,  and 
get  me  the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  But  my  curiosity  is  so  keen.  I'd 
like  to  hear  the  whole  story. 

HOPKINS.  When  it  blows  over  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (thinking  aloud).  When  it  blows 
over! 

HOPKINS   (impatiently).     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  It  shocked  me  to  hear  Sawyer 
make  such  a  terrible  accusation  against  you!  And 
now  you  admit  you  are  friendly  with  Trask. 

HOPKINS.     Well,   there's   nothing   wrong   about 


88  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

that.  (Smiling.)  You  know  it's  an  old  saying  that 
politics  makes  strange  bedfellows.  (He  moves 
about  trying  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  I've  heard  that.  And  it's 
true,  isn't  it  ?  But  you  .  .  .  and  Trask  .  .  . 
and  Judge  Lawrence — ugh !  (She  shudders.) 

HOPKINS.  Now,  Edith,  don't  be  magnifying 
something  you  don't  know  anything  about.  Judge 
Lawrence  ought  to  have  been  recalled. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  And  that's  just  exactly  what  Trask 
thought,  isn't  it? 

HOPKINS.  I  don't  know  just  what  he  thought. 
But  look  here,  Edith,  I  can't  wait  any  longer. 
What's  all  this  delay  about  anyway? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (sitting  up).  Oh,  there's  one  thing 
I  forgot. 

HOPKINS.     What's  that? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  commission. 

HOPKINS.     The  commission? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  Sawyer's.     Let  me  see  it. 

HOPKIN.     I  didn't  bring  any  commission. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Didn't  Mr.  Dolan  tell  you? 

HOPKINS  (with  an  air  of  great  dignity).  Do  you 
really  think  I  ought  to  appoint  to  the  bench  a  man 
who  is  nothing  more  than  a  contemptible  thief  and 
blackmailer  ? 

MRS.   FOSTER.     Isn't  that  the  bargain? 

HOPKINS.     The  bargain? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes. 

HOPKINS  (gradually  awakening).  Well,  I'll 
think  it  over.  But  let  me  have  the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No,  Charles,  not — 

HOPKINS.     Wha-at  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.    — unless  I  get  the  commission. 


A   FRIEND   OF  THE   PEOPLE  89 

HOPKINS.     You  don't  mean  that ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     That's  exactly  what  I  mean. 

HOPKINS.     You'll  give  him  back  the  letters? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  It  would  be  dishonest  for  me  not 
to  do  so. 

HOPKINS.  Now,  Edith,  you're  trying  to  frighten 
me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I'm  trying  to  hold  you  to  your 
bargain — to  have  you  deal  honestly  with  Ned 
Sawyer. 

HOPKINS.     You  won't  give  them  to  me? 
MRS.  FOSTER.     No. 

HOPKINS.     Well  by  God,  I'll  take  them. 
MRS.  FOSTER.     You  wouldn't  do  that,  would  you  ? 
HOPKINS.     Now  look  here,  Edith,  you're  not  go- 
mg  to  be  so   damnably  unreasonable,   I   hope. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I'm  going  to  keep  my  word. 

HOPKINS.  Well  I'm  not  going  to  leave  myself 
in  the  power  of  that  scoundrel. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  They  are  to  remain  in  my  pos 
session. 

HOPKINS.  They  are  stolen  letters.  They  belong 
to  the  owners. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You'll  take  them? 

HOPKINS.  Self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of 
nature. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  wouldn't  dare  do  such  a 
thing. 

HOPKINS  (his  tone  softened,  his  manner  con 
ciliatory).  Edith,  whatever  the  unkindness  I  may 
suffer  at  your  hands  I  will  not  complain.  But 
surely  you  wouldn't  be  so  cruel.  You  wouldn't — 
(he  attempts  to  caress  her.) 

MRS.  FOSTER  (rising  quickly,  avoiding  him,  and 


90 


laughing  scornfully) .  I  think  there  has  been  enough 
said.  Have  I  ever  by  word  or  deed  given  you 
the  impression  that  I  could  sympathize  with  sordid 
treachery  and  the  kind  of  meanness  you  have  shown 
yourself  capable  of? 

HOPKINS  (dumfounded).     What  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  mean  that  the  man  whom  I  in 
spired  with  political  ambition  has  proved  false  to 
his  trust.  I  have  done  much  that  was  wrong,  and 
what  I  have  done  I  deeply  repent;  all  the  more 
deeply  now  that  I  know  how  utterly  unworthy 
you  are.  Oh!  shame  on  you! 

HOPKINS  (in  a  towering  rage).  Where  are 
those  letters? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (pointing  to  the  bedroom).  The 
letters  are  in  there,  the  drawer  is  not  locked.  Take 
them  if  you  dare. 

(He  looks  at  her  a  moment,  his  face  distorted  with 
passion,  then  turns,  goes  to  portiere,  draws  it  aside 
and  opens  the  doors.  Miss  Colton  is  standing  in  the 
room  a  few  feet  from  the  doorway.  Hopkins  is 
transfixed  with  amazement.) 

HOPKINS.  Rosalie!  (He  turns  and  looks  at 
Mrs.  Foster  who  calmly  returns  his  gaze.  For  a 
moment  he  wilts,  then  braces  himself  and  speaks  in 
a  calm  -voice.)  What  are  -you  doing  here  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  She  has  been  waiting  for  you  to 
go. 

(Miss  Colton  comes  out  and  goes  to  Mrs.  Foster 
who  puts  an  arm  around  her.  As  she  passes  him 
Hopkins  speaks.) 

HOPKINS.  Rosalie! — you — don't  misjudge  me, 
Rosalie.  Oh,  don't.  (He  pauses.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Why  not  tell  her  everything. 

(He  turns,  goes  into  bedroom,  opens  top  bureau 
drawer,  takes  out  letters  and  hastily  examines  them. 
Meanwhile  Miss  Colton  in  great  distress  sinks  upon 


A   FRIEND  OF   THE   PEOPLE  91 

the  sofa  and  Mrs.  Foster  pets  her.  Hopkins  comes 
out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  have  taken  those  letters  with 
out  my  permission. 

HOPKINS.     They  were  stolen. 

MRS.   FOSTER.     Yes. 

HOPKINS.  They  can  serve  none  but  an  evil  pur 
pose.  (He  goes  to  fireplace,  takes  a  matchbox  out 
of  his  pocket  and  takes  out  a  match.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  let 
ting  Rosalie  read  that  interesting  correspondence. 

HOPKINS.     Perhaps  you  will  tell  her  all  about  it. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  should  rather  have  her  read  the 
letters  and  then  have  her  hear  you  explain  how  you 
came  to  conspire  with  Luke  Trask  for  the  recall 
of  Judge  Lawrence. 

HOPKINS.     It's  a  lie! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Read  the  letters  to  Rosalie. 

Miss  COLTON  (sobbing).  No,  mo,  don't  read 
them! 

(He  lights  the  match.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  are  going  to  burn  them? 

HOPKINS.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Don't  do  it.  Give  them  to  me! 
(He  looks  at  her,  an  expression  of  hate  in  his  face.) 
I  beg  of  you  for  your  own  sake  not  to  burn  them. 

(He  applies  the  match.  Mrs.  Foster  sits  down 
and  puts  an  arm  around  Miss  Colton  ivhose 
eyes  are  dim  with  tears.  As  the  letters  are  turning 
to  ashes,  the  faint  music  of  a  serenade  is  heard. 
Hopkins  hears,  quickly  gets  his  hat,  turns  a  melan 
choly  glance  on  Miss  Colton  and  goes  out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  don't  think  we  shall  attend  the 
meeting.  (Miss  Colton  sobs.)  What  a  lively  air 
they  are  playing! 

(CURTAIN) 


ACT  IV 

The  following  forenoon.  Living  room  of  the 
Capitol  Hotel.  The  furniture  is  old-fashioned.  On 
the  walls  some  crude  landscapes  in  gilt  frames.  In 
the  back  wall,  a  broad  doorway  leading  to  a  veranda 
through  which  a  garden  is  seen.  On  each  side  of 
the  door  is  a  long  window.  In  the  right  wall  an 
open  doorway.  In  the  upper  left  corner  a  piano. 
In  front  an  oblong  table  covered  with  magazines 
and  newspapers.  Seated  at  the  table  is  Cyrus 
Foster.  He  has  a  handkerchief  in  his  hand.  He 
has  been  wiping  his  brow.  Pendleton  is  standing 
in  the  doorway  looking  up  and  down  the  veranda. 

PENDLETON.     I  wonder  if  he  has  gone  motoring! 

FOSTER.  Very  likely.  Nothing  better  than  the 
fresh  air  for  a  man  when  he  isn't  feeling  well — noth 
ing  better.  I'm  not  feeling  so  well  myself  after  my 
ride  in  a  hot  train. 

PENDLETON.  Too  bad  you  weren't  here  for  the 
serenade. 

FOSTER.  Tell  me  about  it.  Lots  of  enthusiasm, 
I  suppose. 

PENDLETON.     No  man  ever  got  a  greater  ovation. 

FOSTER.  Sorry  I  missed  it,  but  I  had  to  go  to  the 
city.  A  big  meeting,  was  it? 

PENDLETON.     The  whole  town  was  there.     But 


94  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

somehow,  Mr.  Foster,  it  struck  me  that  the  Governor 
wasn't  himself. 

FOSTER.     Not  himself?    Why  not? 

PENDLETON.  It  struck  me  he  was  tired.  He 
lacked  vim.  As  Dolan  would  say,  he  didn't  have 
the  punch. 

FOSTER.  Hm!  And  you  say  he  hasn't  been  to 
the  office  this  morning? 

PENDLETON.  He  telephoned  that  he  wasn't  feel 
ing  well.  But  it's  strange — he  isn't  in  his  room. 
I've  been  all  over  the  grounds  and  everywhere,  and 
I  can't  find  him. 

FOSTER.  Then  I  guess  he  has  gone  motoring — 
with  Rosalie,  perhaps. 

PENDLETON.     I  shouldn't  wonder. 

FOSTER.     If  he  has  he  isn't  very  sick. 

PENDLETON.  He's  been  working  pretty  hard 
lately.  He  looks  worn  out,  but  I  hope  he  isn't,  now 
that  the  senatorial  fight  is  coming  on. 

FOSTER  (rising).  I'll  have  to  quit  riding  in  rail 
road  trains.  Got  to  have  a  cold  bath  and  brisk  rub 
now  to  brace  up. 

PENDLETON.  You  look  fatigued.  (As  Foster 
shows  signs  of  going.)  Would  you  mind,  Mr.  Fos 
ter,  sitting  down  some  day  soon  to  talk  over  the 
senatorial  campaign  ?  We've  got  to  have  your  judg 
ment  and  advice,  you  know. 

FOSTER  (smiles).     Hm — yes,  I  suppose  so. 

PENDLETON.     You're  the  man  to  set  the  pace. 

FOSTER  (preening  himself).  Not  very  much  for 
me  to  learn  in  politics — what? 

PENDLETON.  No,  I  should  say  not.  You  don't 
think  it  too  early  to  start  the  campaign,  do  you? 

FOSTER.  You  can  never  be  too  early.  I'm  a 
great  believer  in  preparedness. 


A   FRIEND  OF   THE   PEOPLE  95 

(Mrs.  Foster  enters  at  right.) 

FOSTER.     Well,  dearie,  here  I  am. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You're  back  early.  (She  yields  a 
cheek  which  he  kisses.) 

PENDLETON.     How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Foster. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Good  mornmg,  Mr.  Pendleton. 

PENDLETON.  We've  just  been  talking  of  the 
senatorial  campaign. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (to  her  husband).    Ah,  is  that  so? 

FOSTER.  I  was  saying  I  don't  think  it's  too  early 
to  start  the  campaign. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  indeed.  Now  I  see  that  I 
have  to  take  you  out  of  the  hands  of  these  politicians. 
They  have  no  mercy  on  you.  They  won't  give  you 
a  moment's  rest.  (He  beams.) 

PENDLETON.     Oh,  don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Foster. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  will  say  that.  (To  Foster.) 
No  more  campaigning  for  you,  for  the  present. 

FOSTER.  Ha,  ha.  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Pendleton  ? 

PENDLETON.     Mrs.  Foster  is  joking. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Mrs.  Foster  is  very  much  in 
earnest. 

FOSTER  (to  Pendleton).  I'll  bet  she  is.  Ha, 
ha ! — out  of  the  hands  of  the  politicians !  That's  a 
good  one  on  Hopkins !  (Putting  an  arm  around 
her.)  So  you  are  going  back  on  the  Administra 
tion! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  We  must  not  neglect  your  health. 
You've  been  taking  a  life-and-death  interest  in 
politics,  and  I  can  see  it  isn't  doing  you  any  good. 

FOSTER  (agitated) .     My  health !    What's  the  mat 
ter  with  my  health?     Don't  I  look  well? 
MRS.  FOSTER.     You  could  look  much  better. 


96  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

FOSTER  (alarmed) .     You  think  so.    Much  better  ? 
MRS.  FOSTER.     Well,  a  little  better. 
FOSTER.     I  know — smoked  too  much  last  night 
and  didn't  get  any  sleep. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (to  Pendleton).     Yes,  I'm  in  earn 
est.     Mr.  Foster  must  go  away  for  awhile. 
FOSTER.     What's  that  ?    Go — where  must  I  go  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling).    Rosalie  and  I  have  been 
making  arrangements  for  a  trip  to — 
FOSTER.     A  trip? 
MRS.  FOSTER.     To  Nauheim. 
FOSTER.     That's  a  health  resort. 
MRS.  FOSTER.     It's  the  ideal  place  for  a  rest. 

FOSTER.  You  talk  as  though  I  were  sick — broken 
down. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  no,  my  dear.  You're  not  in 
ill  health,  but  you  will  be  if  you  continue  to  con 
centrate  all  your  attention  on  politics.  Your  habits 
have  become  very  irregular,  and  there  is  too  much 
excitement  in  politics.  Besides  you  know  what  I 
have  been  looking  forward  to. 

FOSTER.  Do  I?  (She  nods.)  I'm  blessed  if  I 
haven't  forgotten. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Have  you  forgotten  the  trip  to 
Rome? 

FOSTER.     Trip  to  Rome?    This  is  the  first — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Now,  now,  don't  pretend  that 
your  memory  is  failing.  That's  an  awfully  bad 
sign.  Isn't  it,  Mr.  Pendleton? 

PENDLETON.  Not  always,  Mrs.  Foster.  The 
youngest  of  us  have  lapses. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Well,  dear,  whether  you've  for 
gotten  or  not  we  are  going  to  Europe. 

FOSTER.    We  are — who?    What? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  97 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  and  I — and  Rosalie. 

FOSTER.  And  Rosalie!  (Laughs.)  Rosalie  go 
ing  to  Europe  ?  On  her  honeymoon  trip,  I  suppose. 

PENDLETON.  What  will  the  senatorial  campaign 
be  without  you,  Mr.  Foster. 

FOSTER.  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know.  And 
for  that  matter,  without  you,  dearie. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  now  that  Governor  Hopkins 
is  an  experienced  politician  and  so  popular  he  is 
hardly  in  need  of  our  assistance. 

FOSTER.  Are  you  in  earnest?  Are  you  really 
thinking  of  going  abroad? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Rosalie  and  I  have  begun  packing 
our  trunks. 

FOSTER.  Phew !  Well,  it  beats  the  world  how 
women  can  accumulate  whims.  And  you'd  leave 
poor  Hopkins  to  fight  it  out  alone — and  Rosalie, 
too.  You  must  be  joking!  Now  as  a  matter  of 
fact  you  couldn't  drag  Rosalie  away  from  the  State. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Well,  dear,  we'll  not  talk  about  it 
any  more  at  present.  You  were  up  late  last  night, 
and  you  must  be  tired. 

FOSTER.  Yes,  I  am  tired.  I'm  just  going  up  to 
get  into  a  cold  bath. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     That's  a  good  idea. 

FOSTER.  Well,  Pendleton,  drop  in  tomorrow  and 
we'll  talk  the  situation  over. 

PENDLETON.  All  right,  sir.  (To  Mrs.  Foster.) 
Have  you  seen  the  Governor  thif  morning? 

(Foster  goes  in  door  on  right.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No,  I  have  not. 

PENDLETON.  He  hasn't  been  to  the  office  today. 
He  telephoned  he  was  ill. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Oh,  that's  too  bad.  It's  not  a  case 
for  a  doctor  I  hope. 


98  A    FRIEND   OF    THE    PEOPLE 

PENDLETON.  Oh,  no — it's  not  so  bad  as  that. 
He's  not  in  bed.  He  has  gone  somewhere.  For  all 
I  know  he  may  be  at  the  office  now.  So  I'll  be  go 
ing  back.  (He  starts  to  go.)  Oh,  are  you  really 
going  to  Europe? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  we  are  going. 

PENDLETON.  What  a  terrible  blow  to  the  Gov 
ernor!  Have  you  told  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No,  not  yet. 

(Enter  Miss  Colton  at  right.  She  is  in  a  walking 
suit.) 

PENDLETON.  Ah,  good  morning.  Have  you 
seen  the  Governor? 

Miss  COLTON.     No,  not  today. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  Governor  is  ill,  Rosalie. 

Miss  COLTON.     Very  ill? 

PENDLETON.  Oh,  nothing  serious.  So  you  are 
going  to  leave  us! 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes.     For  a  few  months. 

PENDLETON.  Ah.  Well  I  must  be  getting  back 
to  the  office.  I  suppose  I'll  see  you  before  you  go. 

Miss  COLTON.  Oh,  yes.  We'll  be  here  for 
several  days. 

(He  botvs  and  goes  out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Where  are  you  going? 

Miss  COLTON.     Just  for  a  walk. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Your  uncle  is  back.  I  told  him 
about  the  trip. 

Miss  COLTON.     What  did  he  say  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  He  was  surprised,  of  course,  but — 
well  we're  going.  Don't  you  feel  well,  dear? 

Miss  COLTON  (smiles).     I  could  feel  better. 
MRS.    FOSTER.     I    understand.     (Puts    an    arm 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  99 

around  her.)     You  dear,  sweet  girl!     The  ocean 
voyage  is  just  the  thing  for  you. 

Miss  COLTON.  I'm  already  longing  for  the 
ocean. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  That's  a  good  sign.  I'm  longing 
for  it  too — longing  to  go  down  into  its  depths, — to 
feel  the  boundlessness  of  it — to  be  tossed  about  on 
its  rolling  waves. 

Miss  COLTON.     Oh,  it  must  be  inspiring! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     It  is,  dear. 

Miss  COLTON  (going  to  door).     I'll  be  in  soon. 

(She  goes  out  at  back.  Mrs.  Foster  watches  her 
as  she  enters  the  garden.  Then  goes  to  table,  looks 
at  magazines  a  moment,  turns,  goes  toward  piano. 
As  she  does  so  sees  Hopkins  on  the  veranda  pass 
ing  window  on  the  left,  on  his  way  to  the  doorway. 
He  enters.  He  is  extremely  nervous.  His  face  is 
flushed.  His  hair  is  touseled.  Apparently  he  has 
been  drinking.  On  seeing  Mrs.  Foster  he  braces 
tip.) 

HOPKINS  (in  a  tone  of  profound  sadness).  Edith ! 
(She  does  not  answer,  but  regards  him  calmly.) 
Won't  you  speak  to  me? 

MRS.  FOSTER  (indifferently).  I  have  nothing  to 
say — nothing. 

HOPKINS  (his  head  bowed).  Oh,  listen  to  me, 
Edith — just  a  word.  I  did  wrong  last  night.  .  .  . 
It  was  terrible — yes,  yes.  (Mrs.  Foster  moves  a 
step  as  though  going.)  Oh,  Edith,  won't  you  listen 
to  me?  I'm  not  asking  for  forgiveness.  I  know 
that's  impossible. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Then  why  talk  about  it? 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  I  want  to  explain.  I  know  you 
despise  me,  but — I  wasn't  in  my  right  mind.  I  was 
mad.  (She  takes  up  a  magazine.)  Oh,  won't  you 


100  A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE 

listen  to  me?  You  will  drive  me — (she  looks  up). 
Yes,  Edith,  you — I  beg  of  you  to  listen.  You  know 
what  a  terrible  state  I  was  in — how  worried — how 
distressed — I  had  been  drinking,  Edith.  I  didn't 
intend  to  break  my  agreement.  I'll  appoint  Sawyer. 
I'll— 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Too  late. 

HOPKINS.     Too  late? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes.     (She  turns  to  go.) 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  that  can't  be,  Edith.  You  don't 
understand  me.  It's  because  you  despise  me.  Some 
day  you'll  know  all,  but  meanwhile  I  can  at  least 
keep  my  promise.  I  can  appoint  Sawyer.  The 
letters  are  destroyed,  but  that  doesn't  matter. 
Everything  will  be  done  just  as  though  they  were 
still  in  existence. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling  bitterly).  No.  It's  too 
late. 

HOPKINS.     You  mean — Rosalie?    She — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  No,  I  mean  yourself.  The  in 
juries  done  to  Judge  Lawrence  and  Ned  Sawyer — 
and  to  yourself,  are  beyond  reparation.  (She  goes 
out  through  door  in  right  wall.  Hopkins  stands  be- 
zvildered.  He  cannot  grasp  her  meaning.  He 
sinks  into  a  chair.  Dolan  enters  at  back.) 

DOLAN.  Morning,  Governor.  (Hopkins  doesn't 
answer.)  Are  you  ill?  (He  puts  a  hand  on  Hop 
kins'  shoulder.) 

HOPKINS  (shakes  his  head).  Yes,  I  don't  feel  at 
all  well,  Larry. 

DOLAN.     What's  the  trouble? 

HOPKINS  (rising).     I've  had  a  bad  night,  Larry. 

DOLAN.     Have  you  had  a  doctor? 

HOPKINS.  No, — I  don't  need  a  doctor.  .  .  . 
Has  Sawyer  been  to  the  office? 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  101 

DOLAN.     No,  I  haven't  seen  him. 
HOPKINS.     He  didn't 'phone  ? 
DOLAN.     No.     But,    what   do   you   think,    Luke 
Trask  has  been  'phoning. 

HOPKINS.     Trask?    What  does  he  want? 

DOLAN.  I  don't  know.  Long  distance  has  been 
calling  up  all  morning.  Wants  you  to  call  up  the 
city. 

HOPKINS     Hm !     I  wonder  what  Trask  wants ! 

DOLAN.  I  wonder,  too.  That's  the  first  time 
he  ever  called  up  the  office.  Don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  be  in  bed. 

HOPKINS.  Sit  down,  Larry.  (They  sit  facing 
each  other  at  table.)  I'm  not  myself,  Larry.  (A 
pause.)  I  ought  to  be  in  bed,  but  I'm  too  nervous 
to  stay  there.  (A  pause.) 

DOLAN.     What  appears  to  be  the  matter? 

HOPKINS.  Oh,  I  feel  all  shot  to  pieces.  .  .  . 
I'll  be  all  right — after  a  while.  (Presses  his  temples 
with  his  hands.) 

DOLAN.     Why  not  call  a  doctor  ? 

HOPKINS.  No.  No  doctor.  I  ought  to  take  a 
dose  of  bromide,  I  suppose,  but  I've  been  trying  to 
brace  up  on  brandy,  and  I'm  not  used  to  it. 

DOLAN.  Brandy?  You  drinking  brandy!  I 
thought  you  never  drank. 

HOPKINS.     I  needed  a  stimulant. 

DOLAN.     But  you  oughtn't  to  drink  brandy. 

HOPKINS.  Larry,  listen;  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
something.  (A  pause.) 

DOLAN.     What  is  it,  Governor? 

HOPKINS.  I  have  to  get  away.  I'm  going  away 
for  a  week  or  two. 

DOLAN.     Before  the  extra  session? 


102  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

HOPKINS.     Yes.     I  must  have  a  rest. 

DOLAN.  Great  Scott!  How  can  you  get  away 
now? 

HOPKINS.  I'm  not  going  far,  Larry — up  to  my 
brother's  ranch — into  the  mountains.  Oh,  how  I 
long  to  fill  my  lungs  with  mountain  air !  That's 
what  I  need,  Larry, — a  breath  of  pure  air — of  pure 
air! 

DOLAN.  Too  damned  bad  that  you  called  the 
extra  session  so  early ! 

HOPKINS  (pressing  his  temples).  Yes,  that's  un 
fortunate,  but  I  must  go.  (Flaring  up  for  a 
moment.)  By  God,  I  must  go — up  there  among 
the  pines.  I  can  sleep  there.  I  can  find  forget- 
fulness,  calm — rest.  There's  where  I  spent  my  boy 
hood,  Larry — high  up  in  winding  valleys,  with 
towering  pines  all  around.  What  hours !  What 
memories !  Yes,  I  must  go. 

DOLAN  (rising).  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  must,  you 
must ! 

HOPKINS  (sitting,  half  sinking  into  the  chair). 
Larry,  don't  tell  anybody  where  I've  gone.  Do  you 
hear? 

DOLAN.     Nobody  ? 

HOPKINS.  Nobody.  Just  tell  them  I'm  sick  from 
overwork  and  that  my  physician  ordered  me  away 
peremptorily. 

DOLAN.     Does  nobody  know  you're  going? 

HOPKINS.     You're  the  only  person  I've  told. 

DOLAN.  What  about  .  .  .  you  haven't  told 
anybody  ? 

HOPKINS.     I  haven't  told  a  soul. 

DOLAN.     What  about — the  Fosters?     (A  pause.) 

HOPKINS.  No.  I  haven't  told  them.  (He  bows 
his  head  on  his  arms  on  the  table.) 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  103 

DOLAN  (hesitating).  Haven't  you — haven't  you 
told  Miss  Colton? 

(Hopkins  as  if  stricken,  bows  his  head  on  his 
chest,  and  there's  a  long  pause  while  Dolan  stands 
dumfounded.) 

DOLAN.  Governor !  (Puts  his  hand  on  Hopkins' 
shoulder.)  What's  the  matter? 

HOPKINS  (rousing  himself.  Shakes  his  head  in 
the  negative).  I've  told  nobody  .  .  .  not  even 
Rosalie.  (Rises  more  agitated  than  ever  and  paces 
up  and  down.)  Larry,  I'd  give  twenty  years  of  my 
life  if  I  could  turn  the  clock  back  not  quite  that 
many  hours. 

DOLAN.  Come,  Governor,  don't  be  so  downcast. 
The  worst  of  our  troubles,  hm  ?  are  those  that  never 
happen. 

(Miss  Colton  is  seen  through  doorway  coming  to 
ward  hotel.  Dolan  hears  her  footsteps  on  the 
veranda.  He  looks  around.) 

DOLAN.     There's  Miss  Colton  now. 

(Hopkins  rises,  is  on  the  point  of  going  to  her. 
She  doesn't  look  in.  She  turns  to  right.) 

HOPKINS  (just  as  Miss  Colton  vanishes  before 
reaching  the  ivindow) .  Rosalie ! 

(Miss  Colton  is  seen  passing  the  window  on  the 
right.  Her  attention  is  attracted  by  something  on 
the  second  Hoor  of  the  hotel.  She  looks  up  and 
waves  her  hand  and  smiles,  walks  along  and  dis 
appears.  All  the  ivhile  Dolan  and  Hopkins  are 
watching.) 

HOPKINS  (sinking  back  in  chair).  Gone!  Yes, 
she's  gone ! — forever !  (He  wipes  aivay  a  tear.) 

DOLAN.  Governor,  what  has  happened?  I  don't 
want  to  pry  into  your  private  affairs,  but  damn  it — 
perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  you. 


104  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

HOPKINS.  Yes,  I  understand,  Larry.  You're  a 
good  fellow.  But  there's  nothing  to  be  done — 
nothing.  .  .  .  It's  all  over.  (Pulling  himself 
together.)  I'll  forget  all  about  it  ...  in  the 
mountains. 

DOLAN  (cheerfully).  That  the  way  to  feel  about 
it! 

HOPKINS.  If  Sawyer  comes  in  today  tell  him — 
say  that  I — tell  him  that  I  was  speaking  about  him — 
about  his  appointment — and  that  I'll  see  him  as  soon 
as  I  return. 

DOLAN.     When  are  you  going? 

HOPKINS  (looking  at  his  watch).  As  soon  as  I 
pack  my  grip.  Now,  you  must  get  right  back  to  the 
office.  (Rising.)  But  come  I  must  have  another 
drink.  Let's  go  to  the  bar. 

DOLAN.  I'd  advise  you  not  to  drink  any  more, 
hm  ?  Better  take  the  bromide. 

HOPKINS.     Oh,  a  few  more  won't  hurt  me. 

(As  they  go  out  at  back,  Mrs.  Foster  comes  in  at 
right  and  sees  them.  They  walk  along  veranda 
passing  window  on  left.  She  watches  them.  Miss 
Colton  enters  at  right.) 

Miss  COLTON.  Well,  it's  all  right.  Uncle  is 
satisfied. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Good! 

Miss  COLTON  (with  some  animation).  Now  I'm 
in  a  hurry  to  be  off. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  We  ought  to  be  able  to  get  away 
by  the  end  of  the  week. 

Miss  COLTON.     Oh,  I  hope  so! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  That  is,  if  everything  comes  out 
right.  .  .  .  Dunstan  ought  to  be  back  by  this 
time. 

Miss  COLTON.     So  soon? 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  105 

MRS.  FOSTER.  It  was  very  early  when  he  started. 
He  has  had  plenty  of  time.  .  .  .  What  a  storm 
is  brewing  for — 

Miss  COLTON.  Oh,  Aunt  Edith,  I  hate  to  think 
of  it !  I  wish  I  could  go  away  now  ! 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  too  am  becoming  nervous.^ 
I  wish  Dunstan  were  here.  .  .  .  Dunstan  is 
very  much  of  a  man.  Don't  you  think  so? 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes,  he  is. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  A  very  fine  character — very  sin 
cere. 

Miss  COLTON.     Yes. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  think  he  is  very  fond  of  you. 

Miss  COLTON  (showing  a  slight  touch  of  anima 
tion).  I  think  he  used  to  be  fond  of  me. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Why,  Rosalie,  he's  head  over  heels 
in  love  with  you  at  this  minute. 

(Pendleton  enters  at  back.) 

PENDLETON  (somewhat  excited.  To  Mrs.  Fos 
ter).  He  isn't  at  the  office.  Have  you  seen  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     He  just  went  out  with  Mr.  Dolan. 

PENDLETON.  Ah,  then  they've  gone  to  the  of 
fice.  I'm  glad  to  know  he's  all  right.  (To  Miss 
Colton.)  We  shall  miss  you,  I'm  sure. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Mr.  Pendleton  thinks  we  ought  to 
stay  for  the  senatorial  campaign. 

PENDLETON  (to  Miss  Colton).  You  will  miss  a 
lot  of  excitement.  We  shall  be  in  the  midst  of  the 
campaign  very  soon.  You  might  say  it  was  started 
last  night. 

Miss  COLTON.   ,  Last  night? 

PENDLETON.  Yes,  the  big  jollification.  That  was 
virtually  the  first  gun. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  should  think  it  was  rather  early 
to  start  the  campaign. 


106  A    FRIEND   OF    THE    PEOPLE 

PENDLETON.  The  Governor  is  in  the  hands  of  his 
friends,  you  know,  and  they  feel  it's  important  to 
keep  moving;  especially  in  this  State  where  the 
forces  of  corruption  are  always  alert.  See  what 
they're  trying  to  do  now  in  this  Lawrence  matter. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes,  they  appear  to  be  after  him. 

PENDLETON.  The  System  is  always  busy.  The 
Interests  never  sleep.  They  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  keep  Governor  Hopkins  out  of  the 
Senate.  And  we  may  depend  on  it  they  are  even 
now  anticipating  the  trend  of  events.  You  will  see 
the  opposition  press  getting  busier  every  day. 

(Enter  Fred  Dunstan  at  back  in  a  hurry.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Ah.     You  have  returned ! 

DUNSTAN  (smiling.  Shakes  hands  with  Mrs. 
Foster  and  nods  to  Miss  Colton  and  Pendleton.) 
How  is  everybody  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  made  a  quick  trip. 

DUNSTAN.  I've  been  back  half  an  hour,  chasing 
around  everywhere  looking  for  the  Governor.  Is 
he  here? 

(Miss  Colton  goes  to  piano  and  looks  at  sheet 
music.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  He  has  been  here.  Mr.  Pendleton 
thinks  he  has  gone  to  the  office. 

DUNSTAN.  I've  just  been  over  there.  Saw 
Dolan  just  now  on  his  way  there,  and  he  says  the 
Governor  hasn't  been  to  the  office  and  will  not  be 
there  today.  (Looks  significantly  at  Mrs.  Foster.) 

PENDLETON.     The  Governor  isn't  feeling  well. 

DUNSTAN.  So  Dolan  says.  (Looks  at  his 
watch.)  Why  it's  almost  twelve  o'clock.  I  must 
get  hold  of  him. 

PENDLETON.  May  I  ask  why  you  wish  to  see  the 
Governor?  Perhaps  I  can  be  of  some  assistance. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  107 

DUNSTAN.  No,  you  can't  be  of  the  slightest  as 
sistance.  I've  got  to  see  the  Governor  personally. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling  at  Dunstan).  I  suppose 
your  paper  has  some  important  news. 

DUNSTAN.  It's  off  the  press  by  this  time.  The 
extras  ought  to  be  here  before  long — that's  why  I'm 
in  such  a  hurry  to  get  an  interview  with  him — to 
see  what  he  has  to  say. 

PENDLETON  (consumed  with  curiosity).  Ah, — 
you  have  some  news — political  news? 

DUNSTAN.  Yes,  its  political  news — very  inter 
esting  political  news.  You'll  be  reading  it  in  a  lit 
tle  while.  The  papers  will  be  in  on  the  next  train. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Mr.  Pendleton,  you  know,  is  go 
to  manage  the  Governor's  senatorial  campaign.  He 
was  talking  about  it  just  as  you  came  in. 

DUNSTAN.     Oh,  is  that  so? 

PENDLETON  (to  Mrs.  Foster).  I  fancy  the  Gov 
ernor  will  not  get  much  help  from  the  Post. 

DUNSTAN.  That's  a  remarkably  shrewd  con 
jecture  for  you,  Mr.  Pendleton. 

PENDLETON  (still  addressing  Mrs.  Foster).  But 
fortunately  the  reactionary  press  doesn't  wield  a 
great  deal  of  influence  these  days. 

DUNSTAN.  That's  a  bitter  blow  from  you,  Pen 
dleton — a  very  bitter  blow. 

PENDLETON.  The  Post  tried  hard  to  beat  Gov 
ernor  Hopkins  in  the  gubernatorial  campaign,  and 
it  tried  hard  to  beat  the  Constitutional  amendments. 
Perhaps  it  will  wake  up  after  a  while  and  see  that 
there  is  evolution  in  the  affairs  of  man  as  well  as  in 
nature.  This  is  the  day  of  uplift,  Mr.  Dunstan — 
the  man  above  property — the  soul  above  the  pocket 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

DUNSTAN.     Yes — especially  all  that  sort  of  thing ; 


108  A    FRIEND   OF    THE    PEOPLE 

that's  great  stuff — that  Progressive  patter.  You've 
got  a  fine  assortment  of  catch-phrases. 

PENDLETON.  Oh,  of  course — catch-phrases — 
patter — you  reactionaries  are  impossible — aren't 
they,  Mrs.  Foster? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     I  believe  they  are. 

DUNSTAN.  Yes,  Pendleton,  the  reactionaries  are 
impossible  and  I  don't  believe  they'll  support  Gov 
ernor  Hopkins  for  the  Senate.  But  I'm  not  sure 
the  Progressives  will  support  him  either. 

PENDLETON.  No,  we'll  see  about  that,  won't  we, 
Miss  Colton?  (Miss  Colton  turns  around  on  the 
piano  stool.)  Mr.  Dunstan  says  he's  not  sure  the 
Progressives  will  support  the  Governor  for  the 
Senate. 

Miss  COLTON.     Does  he  say  that? 

PENDLETON.  A  case  of  the  wish  being  father  to 
the  thought. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (to  Pendleton).  Rosalie  is  kind  of 
losing  interest  in  politics — now  that  she's  going 
abroad. 

PENDLETON.  But  I  know  what  her  thoughts  are 
about  reactionaries. 

Miss  COLTON  (smiles  feebly).  My  thoughts  are 
on  the  ocean  today. 

DUNSTAN.  There  you  are,  Pendleton.  (Going 
toward  Miss  Colton.)  In  other  words  your  thoughts 
are  far  away  from  politics  and  politicians. 

Miss  COLTON.  Yes.  I'm  thinking  of  my  trip. 
We  are  going  abroad. 

DUNSTAN.     Ah. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Mr.  Foster  needs  a  rest.  But  we 
shall  not  be  gone  more  than  a  few  months. 

DUNSTAN  (much  interested).  Only  a  few 
months  ?  (A  pause.)  Come  to  think  of  it  my  vaca- 


109 


tion  is  overdue.  I  could  stand  a  few  months  im 
Europe  very  nicely. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Then  come  with  us.  We  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you.  Sha'n't  we,  Rosalie? 

Miss  COLTON  (blushing  as  Dunstan  looks  at  her 
expectantly).  Yes. 

DUNSTAN.  Thank  you.  By  jove,  I'll  go.  The 
paper  will  be  able  to  spare  me  after  this  scoop. 
(A  pause.)  Guess  I'll  send  a  card  up  to  the  Gov 
ernor's  rooms. 

PENDLETON  (who  has  been  listening  with  mixed 
emotions).  You'll  not  find  him  there. 

DUNSTAN.  Nothing  like  trying,  Pendy.  He 
may  have  gone  round  the  other  way.  (He  goes  out 
at  right.) 

PENDLETON.  What's  this  scoop,  he's  talking 
about  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Does  he  alarm  you? 

PENDLETON.  Oh,  I  don't  take  him  very  seriously. 
(Turning  to  Miss  Colton.)  I'm  more  worried 
about  you.  I  know  the  Governor  doesn't  want  you 
to  be  active  in  the  affairs  of  the  League  of  Justice, 
but  surely  you're  not  going  to  desert  us  altogether. 

Miss  COLTON.     I'm  going  away. 

PENDLETON.  Yes,  I  know,  but  you're  coming 
back. 

Miss  COLTON  (sighing).  I'm  beginning  to  feel 
that  I  have  no  instinct  for  politics.  I  don't  be 
lieve  many  women  have. 

PENDLETON.  Good  gracious,  Miss  Colton !  How 
can  you  say  that?  We  are  indebted  to  such  women 
as  you  and  Mrs.  Foster  for  much  that  has  been 
done  for  the  redemption  of  this  State. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  give  us  too  much  credit. 

(Enter  Sawyer.     He  bows  to  Mrs.  Foster.    Pen- 


110  A    FRIEND   OF    THE    PEOPLE 

dleton  looks  at  him  in  astonishment  and  appears 
embarrassed.) 

SAWYER  (to  Mrs.  Foster).     Waiting? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Yes ;  are  you  getting  anxious  ? 

SAWYER.     Somewhat. 

PENDLETON.  I'll  be  getting  back  to  the  office. 
Good-bye.  (Mrs.  Foster  and  Miss  Colton  nod  to 
him  and  he  goes  out  at  back.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     This  is  Mr.  Sawyer,  Rosalie. 

Miss  COLTON.     How  do  you  do.    (Sawyer  bows.) 

SAWYER  (to  Mrs.  Foster).  That  fellow  that  just 
went  out — he's  the  Governor's  handy  man. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Do  you  know  him? 

SAWYER.  I  know  him  by  sight.  Used  to  come  to 
Trask's  office  nearly  every  day.  He  handled  the  re 
call  movement  from  both  ends. 

Miss  COLTON  (amazed).  You  mean  Mr.  Pendle- 
ton? 

SAWYER.  Yes,  I  think  that's  his  name.  I  heard 
that  Trask  put  him  in  the  Governor's  office. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (smiling  at  Rosalie).  What  do  you 
think  of  that? 

Miss  COLTON.  I  don't  know  what  to  think. 
(She  returns  to  piano.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Dunstan,  the  newspaper  man,  was 
just  here.  Everything  is  all  right.  He's  now  try 
ing  to  find  the  Governor,  to  get  an  interview. 

SAWYER.     I'd  like  to  be  present  when  they  meet. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Isn't  it  surprising  the  speed  of 
newspaper  machinery.  It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock 
when  you  gave  me  those  photographic  copies.  It 
was  after  eight  when  I  gave  them  to  him.  He 
rushed  to  the  city  in  an  automobile.  It  must  have 
taken  him  nearly  an  hour.  And  the  paper  will  be 
in  on  the  next  train.  « 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  111 

SAWYER.     That's  quick  work. 
MRS.   FOSTER.     I'm  glad  I  telephoned  you  last 
night. 

SAWYER.     Yes,  you  didn't  lose  much  time. 
(Dunstan  returns.) 

DUNSTAN.  Well,  I  can't  find  him.  He  has  van 
ished. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Mr.  Dunstan,  this  is  Mr.  Sawyer. 

DUNSTAN.     Glad  to  meet  you,  sir. 

SAWYER.     I'm  glad  to  know  you,  sir. 

DUNSTAN  (looking  at  his  watch).  After  twelve. 
Train  will  be  in  shortly. 

MRS.  FOSTER  (to  Dunstan).  Mr.  Sawyer  is  an 
old  friend  of  ours.  He  knows  all. 

DUNSTAN.     Ah. 

SAWYER.  I  understand  you  have  got  hold  of 
some  interesting  news. 

DUNSTAN  (smiling).  The  biggest  piece  of  news 
I  ever  got  hold  of. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Will  the  letters  be  in  fac  simile? 

DUNSTAN.  They  certainly  will.  Right  across 
the  front  page.  Politically  Hopkins  is  as  dead  as 
a  door  nail  right  now. 

SAWYER.     And  he  doesn't  know  it. 

DUNSTAN.     Nothing  for  him  to  do  but  resign. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  take  a  mild  view  of  the  sit 
uation.  (To  Sawyer.)  Don't  you  think  so? 

SAWYER.     It's  not  an  extreme  view. 

DUNSTAN.  Mrs.  Foster,  you  have  rendered  a 
great  service  to  the  State. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  don't  know  about  that.  After 
all  it's  a  terrible  thing  to  destroy  high  notions  of 
human  character. 

DUNSTAN.     I  think  it  a  good  thing  to  let  the 


112  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

cocksure  people  see  that  what  they  chiefly  need  pro 
tection  against  is  their  own  judgment.  Oh,  by  the 
way,  they've  instructed  me  at  the  office  to  get  the 
history  of  the  letters. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  history? 

DUNSTAN.  Yes.  You  know  wre've  always  got  to 
be  prepared  for  libel  suits.  Hopkins  may  pronounce 
the  letters  forgeries.  He  may  say  it's  a  frame-up. 
He  may  accuse  Trask.  Now  if  we  could  be  sure 
that  we  could  trace  the  letters, — explain  just  how 
they  were  obtained — 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Is  that  necessary? 

DUNSTAN.     Is  there  any  objection  to — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  Yes,  there  is.  I  don't  think  it 
will  be  necessary  to  go  into  that  matter. 

DUNSTAN.     You  don't? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  You  know  the  understanding  is 
that  even  my  name  isn't  to  be  made  public. 

DUNSTAN.     Oh,  yes — that's  sacred. 

SAWYER.     He'll  not  pronounce  them  forgeries. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  If  he  were  tr  pronounce  them 
forgeries  or  attempt  to  make  trouble  for  the  Post, 
then,  I'm  quite  sure,  the  person  who  knows  all  about 
the  letters  would  come  forward.  But  you  need  not 
be  apprehensive  on  that  score.  I  don't  think  there'll 
be  any  fight  left  in  Governor  Hopkins. 

DUNSTAN.  He  has  put  up  some  mighty  good 
fights  in  politics.  In  fact  he  has  won  the  reputa 
tion  of  a  fighter. 

SAWYER.  That  was  when  things  were  coming 
his  way.  It's  easy  to  fight  when  you're  on  top. 
You'll  find  that  Hopkins  is  a  quitter. 

DUNSTAN.  Well,  we  shall  soon  see.  I'd  like  to 
know  where  he  is.  Do  you  think  he  suspects? 

MRS.  FOSTER.     No,  he  doesn't  suspect. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE  113 

DUNSTAN.  I'll  take  a  run  over  to  his  garage  aad 
see  whether  his  machine  is  out.  (Goes  toward  door, 
then  approaches  Miss  Colton  who  is  examining  some 
sheet  music.)  The  more  I  think  of  the  trip  to 
Europe  the  more  I  like  it.  (She  smiles.  He  turns 
to  Mrs.  Foster.)  I'll  be  back  again.  (He  goes 
out.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.  The  Governor  hasn't  been  to  the 
office  today.  And  Dunstan  has  been  looking  all 
over  for  him,  to  interview  him. 

SAWYER.     Does  nobody  know  where  he  is. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  His  secretary  knows.  I  saw  them 
together  a  little  while  ago. 

SAWYER.     Here  ? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  They  went  out  together.  I 
thought  they  were  going  to  the  office.  Evidently 
the  Governor  has  been  drinking. 

SAWYER.  Celebrating  the  recovery  of  the  letters 
perhaps. 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Poor  fellow! 

SAWYER.     Are  you  becoming  sorry  for  him? 

MRS.  FOSTER.  There  is  nothing  so  dreadful  as 
the  tragedy  of  a  man's  downfall. 

(By  this  time  Miss  Colton  who  has  been  touching 
the  keys  of  the  piano  lightly  begins  playing  softly 
Nevin's  Narcissus.  Suddenly  Governor  Hopkins 
appears  in  the  back  doorway.  His  eyes  are  staring 
wildly  into  the  room.  His  face  is  pale.  His  hat  is 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  Clenched  in  his  right  hand 
is  an  open  daily  paper.  He  staggers  into  the  room, 
glaring  alternately  at  Sawyer  and  Mrs.  Foster,  both 
of  zvhom  are  startled,  but  they  meet  his  gaze  calmly 
and  steadfastly.  Suddenly  his  attention  is  at 
tracted  by  the  piano.  He  sees  Miss  Colton  ^vhose 
back  is  turned  to  him.  She  is  unaware  of  his  pres 
ence.  His  whole  frame  trembles  with  emotion. 


114  A    FRIEND   OF   THE    PEOPLE 

The  impulse  to  go  to  her  seizes  him,  but  only  for  a 
moment.     He  turns  and  addresses  Mrs.  Foster.) 

HOPKINS.  So  this  is  your  work!  (He  waves 
the  paper  wildly.) 

(Miss  Cotton  rises  and  stands  in  amazement. 
Mrs.  Foster  and  Sawyer  face  him.  There  is  a  long 
pause.) 

HOPKINS.     I  hope  you  are  satisfied! 

MRS.  FOSTER.     You  have  only  yourself  to  blame. 

HOPKINS.  Yes  (laughs)  I  am  the  master  of  my 
fate.  I  have  been  walking  a  slack  wire  and  I  have 
fallen  off.  (Turns  to  Miss  Colton.)  Appearance 
is  against  me — so  what's  the  use.  (To  Sawyer.) 
I'm  sorry,  Ned. 

SAWYER.  I  hear  you  destroyed  the  letters  last 
night. 

HOPKINS  (glowering).  Yes,  I  destroyed  them. 
(Subduing  his  tone.)  It's  all  right,  Ned.  You've 
turned  the  trick.  It's  yours.  Take  it  old  man. 

SAWYER.     I  think  it  was  coming  to  me. 

HOPKINS  (his  manner  now  plainly  indicating  that 
he  has  been  drinking).  No,  Ned, — not  exactly. 
I'd  have  appointed  you.  But  (turning  to  Mrs.  Fos 
ter)  it's  too  late — yes,  too  late.  (Looking  at  Miss 
Colton,  and  for  a  moment,  weakening.)  It's  all  too 
late.  (To  Mrs.  Foster.)  Revenge  is  sweet,  eh? 
(To  himself.)  And  sometimes  it's  bitter.  Well, 
Edith,  I'm  sorry — very  sorry!  I  did  wrong — I 
know — 

MRS.  FOSTER.  To  yourself,  more  than  to  any 
body. 

HOPKINS  (staggers  slightly).  Yes, — yes, — that's 
true.  But  now  it's  all  over — and  you  didn't  under 
stand.  (Flaring  up.)  You  don't  understand  even 
now — but — it's  too  late.  (He  walks  toward  door 
on  right.)  It's  too  late. 


A   FRIEND   OF   THE   PEOPLE  US 

(He  goes  in.)  Miss  Colton  goes  to  Mrs.  Foster 
and  puts  an  arm  round  her.) 

SAWYER.  As  I  thought.  Not  much  fight  left  in 
him. 

(Dunstan  enters  at  back.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     The  Governor  was  just  here. 

(A  pistol  shot  is  heard.  All  look  toward  door  on 
right.) 

DUNSTAN.     A  shot! 

SAWYER.     The  end. 

(Dunstan  rushes  through  door  on  right.  A  pause. 
Mrs.  Foster  much  agitated  sinks  into  a  chair.) 

MRS.  FOSTER.     Do  you  think  that  was  he? 

Miss  COLTON.  Oh,  Aunt  Edith,  what  has  hap 
pened  ? 

SAWYER.  I  think  he  has  inscribed  his  name  on 
the  pages  of  history. 

MRS.  FOSTER.  I  didn't  think  he  had  the  courage. 
(Dunstan  reappears.  She  rises  eagerly.)  The 
Governor?  (Dunstan  solemnly  nods.) 

(CURTAIN) 


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